“It’s funny,” he said, coughing, “but the one person I really want to see before I die is precisely the one person who won’t come.” The man coughed again, this time more violently and with a chest rattle that, should one be standing in the same room, would feel its reverberations in his own sternum. And there was someone there. And he did feel them. He shuddered at their impact.

“Sorry,” the man said, “I can’t help it. It was worse yesterday. What’s that? Oh sure. Yeah.  I can tell you, sure.”

Another cough.

“The short version?  I can do that.”

The man looked as if he were about to cough again, moved his hand over his mouth, but, owing to his shifting positions and straightening his back against the headboard, the cough retreated. 

“Thirty years ago, Jesus, is that right? Thirty? Yeah, thirty,” he sighed slowly and rolled his eyes, “my friend and I were inseparable. We met in seventh grade – it was his first day in school after moving to our small town in Maine, from the North Shore of Chicago. Talk about culture shock. Woo-eeee.  The only open seat in my homeroom was right next to me.” The man adjusted himself again, this time purposefully to abate an impending cough. He cleared his throat. 

“Man, did I ever have the hots for my homeroom teacher. She was something else. Wore miniskirts every damn day. And I mean mini.” The lustful reverie distracted him long enough for a cough to break through his defenses. The room rattled. 

“Damn,” he said though the end of his hacking. “I can’t remember her name. Ms. Ms. It’s on the tip of my…huh? What’s that? Oh, sure, sorry. Got distracted.” He smiled wryly as if to say, sure, I’ll stop talking about Ms. Whatshername, but I ain’t gonna stop thinking about her.

“We became fast friends and stayed that way all through high school.” The man paused again, making no sign that it was to try and fight off or succumb to a cough. His eyes widened and then he blurted. “Ms. Osgood!” He sighed, writhing, winning another battle against the enemy in his chest.  “That was the bird’s name. Lovely Ms. Osgood. Oh yes, I know. Sorry. I know you have to be somewhere. But you got to trust me that Ms. Osgood is definitely worth the detour.” 

The man coughed again – this time several times in a row – his shoulders shaking with each hack. At the end of the fit, the man reached for the bedside table and pulled several tissues from a dull blue box. 

The listener, leaning in the doorway, saw the man spit crimson into the wad. The man did not throw away the crumpled tissues, instead he balled it into his fist, presumably saving it for the next bout.

“Sorry. Anyway, we did everything together. Drama club. Tennis team. Made custom bulletin boards for the French teacher for extra credit. Took driving lessons at the same place. I’m telling you we spent a lot of time together.”

The man staved a cough, this time by leaning forward and crumpling slightly.

“We did stupid teenage shit too. Smoked weed. Stole liquor from our parents and drank it in the woods.” The man paused but, the listener thought, not because of his medical state. This time, it appeared, simply to go back in time and retrieve more stupid teenage shit lost to decades of…decades of…..life.  

The man’s wide smile told the listener that he’d found something in the archive. “Drove to Montreal one weekend,” he said as the smile on his face disappeared with the emergence of another cough. No blood this time, the listener thought.

“That was some trip. We got into some right trouble up there, let me tell…..yeah, yeah, I know, maybe next time. Let’s just say that the story involves a traditional lady of the night – and not in the traditional way.”

“We had plans. We were both planning to go to the same college. He was going to study graphic design, and I was going to attend the business school. We were going to start a company together – an advertising firm. Millionaires before we hit thirty. That was the…”

Another coughing fit. Room rattle. Crimson in the wad.

“But then came Leslie. Leslie. Leslie Ann Brooks. Leslie wasn’t just hot. She was fucking beautiful. Audrey Hepburn beautiful. Charlize Theron beautiful. How he landed her I’ll never understand, but he did it. I can’t say that I blame him. I’d rather be making love to Leslie Ann Brooks than drinking pirated vodka on the banks of the Royal River too, but I did sort of lose my very best friend overnight.”

The storyteller attempted his slump-and-crumple maneuver to stop a cough but lost this time. Rattle. No crimson.

“It was okay, I guess. It was Senior year so there were a lot of parties. So, yeah, we saw each other often, and we did hang out, but I was a real third wheel ‘ya know? He and Leslie couldn’t keep their hands off each other. So, I usually ended up flying solo. I mean, I was happy for him. I really do think they fell in love with each other. And she was good for him. She really believed in his art. Encouraged it even. His parents always wanted him to focus on something more practical, but she set him free in a way. He created some….huh? Oh, okay. You’re in a hurry. Got it.”

The man reached for a plastic cup on the bedside table and successfully, by sipping water, avoided another round of hacking and rattling.

“Anyway, this one Sunday, after one of these epic house parties, he comes to me. I was still hung over, I think he was too, but he didn’t look under the weather. He looked, well, heartbroken. His eyes were all swollen and, I think, I forgot to tell you that he was very tall dude. I’m short, so yeah, we looked funny hanging out all the time, but anyway, on this Sunday, he looked small. Downright tiny.”

The man tried the water again but lost. This was a multi-cough session producing palpable rattling that again pulsed in the listener’s chest. And crimson in the wad. And a sigh.

“She cheated on me, he tells me. At the party. Fucked somebody in the bathroom. I asked him who, and he said she won’t tell me. He tells me he’s devastated and needs to know who the hell it is. For like two weeks…”

The storyteller is interrupted by yet another coughing fit. Shuddering shoulders. Rattle. Crimson. A long, drawn-out sigh. 

He’s tired, the listener thinks.

“Sorry, I know we’re running out of time,” the storyteller says, taking a long breath.

“I’m almost done. We’re nearing the end.”

He adjusts his position, again winning a victory against whatever invaders are attacking his lungs.

“I don’t really know what to say so I keep telling him, over and over, just one thing. Don’t. Leave. Her. For weeks this goes on. He and Leslie are constantly fighting. He wants to know who it was, she won’t say because it won’t do any good, and I keep repeating the same mantra.  Don’t. Leave. Her. Finally, and at this point, I’m getting really worried about him. He looks bad. He’s not eating. Not sleeping. So I…”

His attempt to shift comes too late and the cough wins another round. Hack. Rattle. Hack. Rattle. Crimson.

“I recruited our entire friend group to join in on my refrain. Two of them, then three, then four, then even more all told him the same thing. Don’t. Leave. Her. But – it didn’t work. He kept getting worse. I was afraid for him. Afraid he might do something stupid.”

The man sat up straight, took a shallow breath, and stopped breathing altogether. The cough abated. A small victory, but victory nonetheless, the listener thought. The man smiled.

“Finally, I tell him it’s me. I’m the one. Because, well. It was. It was a stupid drunken encounter and didn’t mean anything to either of us, but if he needs to know to move on, then, well, there it is. What’s that? Oh yes, this is the end. I tell him one final time – don’t leave her.”

Cough and crimson.

“Things were never the same. He could never forgive me. We didn’t go to the same college. He and Leslie tried for another few months before he realized he couldn’t forgive her either. The last time I spoke to him was summer of Freshman year. After that he stopped replying to my letters. And that’s it. That’s the story. Huh? Well, sure, but I thought you had to go.”

The man was then overcome with the worst coughing fit yet. His shoulders shook as if in seizure, the rattle’s vibrations caused the cup of water to tip over on the bedside table, and the wad couldn’t handle the quantity of crimson. It dripped down and onto the thin blanket that covered the man’s legs.

“Sorry,” the storyteller now speaking in nearly a whisper, “do I regret telling him? Hell yes. Turns out Leslie was right. It didn’t do any good. It ruined two relationships instead of just the one.”

Cough. Crimson in a new wad.

“What do I wish I’d said? That’s easy.”

The man fought off another cough with a modified slump and crumple, this one more slanted to the side.

“Don’t leave her.”