Birmingham

We ride the Greyhound together, two nights and one day, cramped and curled around each other in the too-small seats. We share burgers and fries at the meal stops, trade drags of cigarettes; I sleep with my head against your back, and listen to the pounding of your heart. And when you say it's time to get off the bus, I don't question you, even though we're ticketed straight through to Atlanta -- I grab my knapsack, and you grab yours, and we stand together in the darkness as the bus pulls away, listening to the crickets and the cicadas chirping in the moonlight.

"Time to go to work," you say, and I finger the cold steel tucked into the waistband of my jeans as you hotwire someone's old Pontiac.

We drive in silence -- *you* drive, as you always do when we're working. The closed, set look on your face would have alerted me to your mood even if I hadn't already known how you feel about extraneous chatter before a job. I'm your partner, the only one you haven't yet killed, because I'm quick and I'm smart and I keep my eyes open and *learn* from you. One of these days, I might be half your equal; until then, I'm content to walk in your shadow. You're the best at what you do: that's what they all say. Even the ones who despise you say it... and they're right.

We circumvent the alarms and enter the house silently, creeping upstairs to the bedroom where our quarry sleeps peacefully. Two bullets from a silenced pistol and it's all over for him -- and then we're off, searching for the bit of information we were sent to retrieve.

I find the hidden wall safe, coax the tumblers to sing a merry little tune for me, and soon the coveted DAT tape is in my pocket -- along with several thousand dollars' cash in non-consecutive bills: an unexpected bonus. Mission complete, I search for you...

You are -- occupied. He's punching you, and you're letting him, though I've never been able to understand why. Yeah, I've seen this one before, I know his face, but what you are to him -- what he is to you -- remains a mystery to me. Of course, I know better than to ask.

I wait to see if you're going to extricate yourself from the situation, and when it becomes clear you're not -- when he's fumbling with handcuffs -- I aim my gun, carefully, carefully! sight and shoot, and catch him just below the knee. With a groan, he falls -- and for a long moment you stand over him and look down at him, your expression unfathomable.

Yeah, I was careful. I don't know who he is to you, partner, but every shred of intuition I own screams that if I were to kill him, my own life expectancy would be correspondingly short.

Finally, you come to where I stand concealed in shadow. "Let's go," you say, and we do -- but not before you've called 911 from the phone in the next room, just to make sure he doesn't lie there bleeding for too long. Our employers will be furious, but then, when have you ever cared about that? You're the best, and they know it; you can get away with these things.

We take *his* car as we leave, abandon it in favor of another stolen car a few miles up the line, switch cars two more times, then leave the last of our acquisitions in a ditch and hike half a mile to a run-down little motel where we can pay cash and not have to show ID. In the room, I hand over the tape, and the money I found along with it -- I don't hold out; just one incident, and I'd lose the limited trust I've been able to earn from you. To your credit, you give me a full half of the cash -- and a bonus: your hand on my shoulder, and "Good work," a rare, precious compliment.

We shower separately, but when you turn out the light, you don't go to your own bed; instead, you slide in next to me. Minimal foreplay, and then you take me from behind -- roughly, but not cruelly, and the name you cry out when you come is not mine. I have the feeling I know whose it is -- but that's one of the many subjects I'm just not going to touch.

You're good at what you do, you're a good partner, and I like working with you... and I like *living*, so I'm just going to keep my mouth shut and wonder in silence, thank you.

When I move to snuggle up to you afterwards, you don't object; in fact, you slide your arm around me and pull me closer, and I feel you sigh. And... that warm wetness against my forehead... is that a tear?

Never mind. It's none of my business. We're partners in work, and sometimes in bed; we're not lovers, though, and it's not my business to pry. In the morning, you'll be yourself again: cold and efficient, getting the job done. And I'll be your backup, and that is as it should be. Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal, everything will be all right.

Tonight, you cry into my hair, and I don't even dare hold you a little tighter; it would shame you to know that I've noticed. I don't even dare spin conjecture in my mind, lest some trace of speculation slip from my unwitting lips someday. You who are so strong, so unyieldingly tough -- in regard to this nameless man, you are so fragile...

And you'd kill me in a second, without remorse, to hide that weakness. I know you would.

Eventually, the tears stop. It's a relief when you slip into sleep. Only then can I relax myself, and dare to brush the last bits of moisture from your face with the barest touch of fingertips.

Sleep well, partner. Preferably without dreaming. Tomorrow is another day...