He is a famous (or perhaps infamous) man known for his good looks, a troubled relationship and involvement in a questionable esoteric society.
He is in pain and very ill.
Outside of social conventions I touch him, help him.
He surrenders himself into my hands, completely in my care. The space is bathed in pale light. There are linens strewn everywhere.
It is unclear whether we are indoors or outdoors, perhaps something in between. Towels on a clothing line flap in a breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.
I lay my hands on his crooked back, feel him burning with fever. His eyes are strange, his face wan and clammy.
I can see how others would be frightened or disgusted by what emanates from his eyes, a peculiar breed of evil.
It only endears him to me, seals a silent understanding.
I am strong enough to lift him onto a bed of sloppily strewn multicolored blankets. My heart is brimming over with pure love as I apply myself fully to tending the fever, a strange combination of detachment and sincere caring.
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