The phone call from Mike wasn’t good. Not that he told us anything in particular, but he was calling from the hospital and his voice was shaky, simply stating, “there have been some complications with Hillary’s surgery.”

Eric drove quickly and efficiently through the streets of Los Angeles, having to maneuver the rush hour game of start and stop. They say that road rage is a national epidemic of people having no patience for their fellow man behind the wheel. I’m not sure what the symptoms are, but I have a feeling Eric is a definite candidate for a positive diagnosis.

“Eric, why don’t you slow down?” I ask, seeing him pass lines of traffic by taking the far right lane with the posted No-Parking-Between-3-and-7 signs, slowly coming up on a parked car.

“See, what a moron! Can’t they read!? It says no parking between 3 and 7pm. What time is it? 5:45pm! What a jerk.”

Eric puts his blinker on, forcing himself in front of a kind old woman in a Buick who gives him the finger.

“This town is about to explode,” he states, smiling back at her.

He reaches over and presses a CD button. Suddenly, Beethoven fills the cabin and we’re listening to a buzzing a symphony of strings as we speed, or rather crawl, down Olympic Boulevard. In that moment I realize why people get so crazy during rush hour (since when was it only an hour?). Like the guy in the three piece suit next to us in his BMW, on the outside perhaps he’s a mild mannered executive but in his car, suddenly he’s king of the kingdom in his own tank. And who can blame him with controlled air, music, drink holders, and seats as comfortable as his living room recliner? Of course he thinks he deserves to go faster than everybody else.

“Mike said not to hurry Eric. Why don’t you just relax?”

“Of course he said not to rush but he called us from Cedars. That’s a hospital.”

“I know what Cedars-Sinai is, Eric.”

And with that Eric takes a hard left onto a side-street, determined to beat the throngs of commuters all trying to get home. Fortunately, the side street is faster, but I know that won’t last long.

“Feel better?”

“At least we’re moving.”

He is right, we are moving. But suddenly my mind isn’t thinking about the speed of the traffic, but the movement of our relationship. Another hospital and illness, which is always a gentle reminder to me how fortunate I am. I reach over and place my hand on top of is.

“What?” He responds, unsure.

“I know this sounds weird, and maybe it’s that fact we’re going to a hospital, but I just want you to know that I love you.”

Eric falls silent, which he does when his emotions prove too much and he’s overwhelmed by his feelings. Instead of opening up or talking about them, he simply remains quiet.

“That’s all I wanted to say,” I mumble.

Sometimes Eric’s reaction when I freely express how I’m feeling, well, hurts me. Hey, I’m opening my heart in this moment--- why can’t he? But he’s not made like I am (not a lot of gay men are) and sometimes I need to give him his space to “process.”

“Do you think 3rd would be faster?” He asks.

Or he does that--- changes the subject and hopes I won’t notice.

“Yes. And don’t change the subject, Eric.”

He remains silent but I keep my hand on his. He gently squeezes my palm as we see the hospital looming in the distance.