adorning his round face.
A piece of chicken drops from my quesadilla and almost rolls off my plate. “Shit.”
He laughs. “Oops. Did I do that?”
“No. Crap.” I pluck it off my plate and stuff it back into the quesadilla, but when I catch him looking, I blush. “Sorry. I just don’t like it when chicken goes to waste.”
“Oh, I’m not saying a thing. Chicken can never be wasted.” He takes a small package wrapped in plastic out of his bag and places it on the table, still rummaging through his bag.
“Um … what are you doing?” I ask.
He puts a bottle of Pepsi on the table and places his bag under the table. “Sitting. Eating.”
“But …” I mutter, still unsure what this is. “You’re that guy who’s been visiting me.”
“Yeah.”
Yeah.
So simple. It’s like it doesn’t faze him.
But he’s the guy who brought me that Snickers. To me, he’s some kind of god.
He starts unwrapping the plastic around his sandwich.
“Hmm … I freaking love chicken,” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich that has some kind of spread on it.
“Guess we’ve got something in common,” I muse, taking another bite of my quesadilla.
“Mmmhmm …” He nods, visibly enjoying his lunch. “Sorry about not saying a thing the other day … I was a bit weird.”
“It’s okay.” I smile at him. “So … what are you in for? Broken toes? Brain surgery?”
“Me? Oh, I’m not a patient here,” he says. “I’m a volunteer.”
I put down my quesadilla. “A volunteer of what?”
He shrugs. “Anything. Showing patients to their rooms. Explaining basic things like how the phone works and where the toilets and exits are. Generally helping people with stuff. Or entertaining them.”
“Oh … look at you … being a good Samaritan.”
A smug smile appears on his face, dimples appearing on each side. “Well, you gotta do something to keep yourself busy.” He takes a sip of his Pepsi. “So what do you have?”
The smile almost immediately disappears from my face. “Broken leg.”
“Ouch. Is it bad?”
“Yeah …” I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second. “My knee and shin are shattered from a car accident.”
He stops eating and puts his sandwich down. “Wow. That sucks.”
“Majorly,” I add.
“So what now? Do you get a cast?”
“No, I had surgery. They put seven pins and a plate in my leg.”
“Really?” His eyes widen. “Whoa, then you’re like a cyborg or something.”
I laugh, suddenly seeing an image of myself in a Robocop uniform. “Cyborg … Basically, yeah.”
“So does that mean you’ll never be able to walk again or …?”
I sigh and stare at the stack of magazines, wishing they were on a table somewhere far from here. Like the dentist, they always have those magazines too. And even though there’s pretty much nothing I hate more than going to the dentist, I’d freaking love to be at the dentist right now instead of here in this hospital.
I say, “Right now, I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. The doctor says I probably will, but that one word … probably … it could ruin everything.”
“I can imagine you’re feeling a lot of doubt.”
“Yes, and it’ll take months and months of rehab to know whether I’ll be my past self again.” I look his way, my lips parting to mention that one thing. That thing that’s been lingering there since I came here.
Dancing.
I’ll probably never do it again.
I briefly smile and push away the impending tears.
“So you’ll be staying here at the hospital for some time then?” he asks.
“Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. The doctor didn’t say when I could go home, but I know they want me on physiotherapy ASAP. Actually, I think they’ll have me doing some exercise today. Something where they put my leg on a device. I don’t know.”
“Nice.” He nods, taking the final bite of his sandwich. He stuffs his mouth with it until it can barely close, and he chews with half his mouth open,
A piece of chicken drops from my quesadilla and almost rolls off my plate. “Shit.”
He laughs. “Oops. Did I do that?”
“No. Crap.” I pluck it off my plate and stuff it back into the quesadilla, but when I catch him looking, I blush. “Sorry. I just don’t like it when chicken goes to waste.”
“Oh, I’m not saying a thing. Chicken can never be wasted.” He takes a small package wrapped in plastic out of his bag and places it on the table, still rummaging through his bag.
“Um … what are you doing?” I ask.
He puts a bottle of Pepsi on the table and places his bag under the table. “Sitting. Eating.”
“But …” I mutter, still unsure what this is. “You’re that guy who’s been visiting me.”
“Yeah.”
Yeah.
So simple. It’s like it doesn’t faze him.
But he’s the guy who brought me that Snickers. To me, he’s some kind of god.
He starts unwrapping the plastic around his sandwich.
“Hmm … I freaking love chicken,” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich that has some kind of spread on it.
“Guess we’ve got something in common,” I muse, taking another bite of my quesadilla.
“Mmmhmm …” He nods, visibly enjoying his lunch. “Sorry about not saying a thing the other day … I was a bit weird.”
“It’s okay.” I smile at him. “So … what are you in for? Broken toes? Brain surgery?”
“Me? Oh, I’m not a patient here,” he says. “I’m a volunteer.”
I put down my quesadilla. “A volunteer of what?”
He shrugs. “Anything. Showing patients to their rooms. Explaining basic things like how the phone works and where the toilets and exits are. Generally helping people with stuff. Or entertaining them.”
“Oh … look at you … being a good Samaritan.”
A smug smile appears on his face, dimples appearing on each side. “Well, you gotta do something to keep yourself busy.” He takes a sip of his Pepsi. “So what do you have?”
The smile almost immediately disappears from my face. “Broken leg.”
“Ouch. Is it bad?”
“Yeah …” I chew on the inside of my cheek for a second. “My knee and shin are shattered from a car accident.”
He stops eating and puts his sandwich down. “Wow. That sucks.”
“Majorly,” I add.
“So what now? Do you get a cast?”
“No, I had surgery. They put seven pins and a plate in my leg.”
“Really?” His eyes widen. “Whoa, then you’re like a cyborg or something.”
I laugh, suddenly seeing an image of myself in a Robocop uniform. “Cyborg … Basically, yeah.”
“So does that mean you’ll never be able to walk again or …?”
I sigh and stare at the stack of magazines, wishing they were on a table somewhere far from here. Like the dentist, they always have those magazines too. And even though there’s pretty much nothing I hate more than going to the dentist, I’d freaking love to be at the dentist right now instead of here in this hospital.
I say, “Right now, I can’t. I don’t know if I’ll be able to. The doctor says I probably will, but that one word … probably … it could ruin everything.”
“I can imagine you’re feeling a lot of doubt.”
“Yes, and it’ll take months and months of rehab to know whether I’ll be my past self again.” I look his way, my lips parting to mention that one thing. That thing that’s been lingering there since I came here.
Dancing.
I’ll probably never do it again.
I briefly smile and push away the impending tears.
“So you’ll be staying here at the hospital for some time then?” he asks.
“Yes, I think so. I’m not sure. The doctor didn’t say when I could go home, but I know they want me on physiotherapy ASAP. Actually, I think they’ll have me doing some exercise today. Something where they put my leg on a device. I don’t know.”
“Nice.” He nods, taking the final bite of his sandwich. He stuffs his mouth with it until it can barely close, and he chews with half his mouth open,
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