I think I can manage being collateral damage
Everest arrives at the clinic a few minutes before three.
It’s not nerves that have him early—just habit. (Well. Not only habit.) He stands just across the lane, near the same awning as before, his shoulder leaned gently against the post and his satchel slung crosswise across his chest. This one’s lighter than last time. No wine, no blanket. Just a few carefully chosen snacks—dried mango, sugared nuts, and two neatly stacked oat-and-honey bars wrapped in waxed paper.
The day is warm but not oppressive, the coastal breeze a little softer than usual. He’s dressed in short sleeves this time, loose and linen again, with cuffed pants that keep clear of the dust. His fingers drum lightly against the canvas of his satchel in quiet, even intervals—two taps, pause. Two taps, pause.
They’re meant to visit the market today. It’s not an errand, more a reconnaissance mission for his woodworking interest, to touch and study the different species of wood on offer. He’s brought a small leather notebook and a carpenter’s pencil tucked into the spine; he’ll record notes on texture, weight, grain pattern, and—where possible—origin.
When the clinic door finally opens, his gaze flicks up immediately, the taps stopping. His lips curve, subtle but steady. "Hi," he says softly, like it’s just for her. "I brought snacks. And a notebook."
It’s not nerves that have him early—just habit. (Well. Not only habit.) He stands just across the lane, near the same awning as before, his shoulder leaned gently against the post and his satchel slung crosswise across his chest. This one’s lighter than last time. No wine, no blanket. Just a few carefully chosen snacks—dried mango, sugared nuts, and two neatly stacked oat-and-honey bars wrapped in waxed paper.
The day is warm but not oppressive, the coastal breeze a little softer than usual. He’s dressed in short sleeves this time, loose and linen again, with cuffed pants that keep clear of the dust. His fingers drum lightly against the canvas of his satchel in quiet, even intervals—two taps, pause. Two taps, pause.
They’re meant to visit the market today. It’s not an errand, more a reconnaissance mission for his woodworking interest, to touch and study the different species of wood on offer. He’s brought a small leather notebook and a carpenter’s pencil tucked into the spine; he’ll record notes on texture, weight, grain pattern, and—where possible—origin.
When the clinic door finally opens, his gaze flicks up immediately, the taps stopping. His lips curve, subtle but steady. "Hi," he says softly, like it’s just for her. "I brought snacks. And a notebook."
.
