The Nail and the Oracle by Theodore Sturgeon

saw me out there that day, and I saw you, just your face, peekin’ through that curtain.
    “I thought you was a
little funny-lookin’ old man
. That’s why I took my time, finished what I was doin’. And that’s why I had to see you so bad when the cops came around and told the guys they were lookin’ for me on a complaint by some
woman
. I had to find you and tell you I never realized it was a woman watchin’ me!”
    “That was the first time,” said Poteen. “Now tell her what you spent every night for a year dreaming about telling her. Go ahead. I think you should.”
    The boy laughed. “It’s the same thing, really. When I saw you through that curtain, I thought you were a funny-lookin’ little old man. Well after that I seen you close up, without no curtain, and all I want is to tell you—you still look like a funny little old man!”
    Little Sister’s face turned grey.
    Poteen rose and motioned the boy toward the door. “The circus is in town,” he said, “I got him a job with it. That takes care of some of the justice. I think he just took care of the rest.”
    He let the boy precede him through the door and, with his hand on the knob, turned to face her. “You knew he thought that, didn’t you? Is that why? Is that the reason you waited two hours to make your complaint? Is that why you wouldn’t let him talk to you? To grab this one chance to tell the world you were a woman, when the world never really knew it before? Is that why you told the reporters ‘everybody calls me Little Sister’ when nobody ever called you that before?”
    “Yes they did!” she shrieked. “Yes they did! My daddy used to call me that!”
    Politely, understandingly, Detective Sergeant Peter Poteen closed the door.

When You Care, When You Love
    He was beautiful in her bed.
    When you care, when you love, when you treasure someone, you can watch the beloved in sleep as you watch everything, anything else—laughter, lips to a cup, a look even away from you; a stride, sun a-struggle lost in a hair-lock, a jest or a gesture—even stillness, even sleep.
    She leaned close, all but breathless, and watched his lashes. Now, lashes are thick sometimes, curled, russet; these were all these, and glossy besides. Look closely—there where they curve lives light in tiny serried scimitars.
    All so good,
so
very good, she let herself deliciously doubt its reality. She would let herself believe, in a moment, that this was real, was true, was here, had at last happened. All the things her life before had ever given her, all she had ever wanted, each by each had come to her purely for wanting. Delight there might be, pride, pleasure, even glory in the new possession of gift, privilege, object, experience: her ring, hat, toy, trip to Trinidad; yet, with possession there had always been (until now) the platter called
well, of course
on which these things were served her. For had she not wanted it? But this, now—
him
, now … greatest of all her wants, ever; first thing in all her life to transcend want itself and knowingly become need: this she had at last, at long (how long, now) long last, this she had now for good and all, for always, forever and never a touch of
well, of course
. He was her personal miracle, he in this bed now, warm and loving her. He was the reason and the reward of it all—her family and forebears, known by so few and felt by so many, and indeed, the whole history of mankind leading up to it, and all she herself had
been
and done and felt; and loving him, and losing him, and seeing him dead and bringing him back—it was all for this momentand because the moment had to be, he and this peak, this warmth in these sheets, this
now
of hers. He was all life and all life’s beauty, beautiful in her bed; and now she could be sure, could believe it, believe …
    “I do,” she breathed. “I do.”
    “What do you do?” he asked her. He had not moved, and did not now.
    “Devil, I thought you were