Leo was an imposing man, over six feet tall with a sharp intellect that cut with amazing speed and accuracy. A gold link bracelet hung from his wrist. He wore khakis and a soft, green sweater that clung to his round belly and skinny shoulders. His clothes were simple, but good quality, meant to last with care.
He leaned against the wall just inside of the restaurant. The room was bright with garish yellows and oranges; it was decorated with sequined sombreros, pictures of dark eyed women and ponchos with intricately threaded designs.
After making his way through the door from the parking lot, he needed to rest. Just for a second. He surveyed his family as they milled about in front of him, laughing and talking, unaware of the struggle occurring behind them. Good, he thought.
He blew his breath out through slightly blue, pursed lips as he tried to force his body to cooperate. It was a technique from his respiratory therapist that he would never admit to using, especially after the way he ended their work together.
Patting his pocket, he slid his hand inside and held his pulse oximeter; a small device the fit over his finger and flashed out a percentage. He resisted the urge to get a reading, but knowing that he could pull it out at any moment gave him a sense of control. There was power in the label and an understanding in the scientific. He felt an ironic reassurance as though it contained the magic needed to open his lungs and carry oxygen when it needed to go. While still in his pocket, he gently turned it over several times between his long, white fingers, a lifelong fidgetier.
Yet, it held no magic, no healing, or even a preference for life over death. The pulse oximeter was not to be swayed by his position or intimidated by his size or smarts. It could only tell the truth that he was not getting enough oxygen and then finish each statement with an honest beep before shutting itself off.
What to do when air becomes the enemy for a man used to walking on top of it?