As Stephen takes another thoughtful mouthful of lasagna, I try to resist the urge to jump out of my hospital bed and punch him. I mean, what kind of guy spends six days by a hospital bed of a women he barely knows and doesn't even know why himself?
A cold tendril of apprehension slithers up my spine and I notice that Stephen is starring at me again. It's like his cold blue eyes are searching my face for some clue to the secrets of the universe.
"Nobody should suffer alone. I read the pain in your eyes that day and it connected me to you. I feel that if I leave you alone here a part of me will be torn away, some vital part of humanity, that once severed, can't be reattached."
His words are so at odds with his demeanor it throws me. He presents as aloof and detached yet his confession just now spoke a wealth of empathy. I feel tears start to burn at the back of my eyelids and I push them down, not wanting to let him see just how messed up I really am.
"You're a strange one Stephen."
He smiles warmly
"You're welcome."
I roll over and give in to the tiredness brought on by the combination of a full stomach and emotional exhaustion.
*********
Six days without touching a brush to canvas is something I never thought I would be able to do. Not since I was old enough to finger-paint had I gone a day without a new piece. The itch is starting to bug me, yet I can't bring myself to leave her, guess I have to scratch it another way. I scrounge around my immediate vicinity and manage to find a stubby little HB pencil that had managed to roll underneath Christine's bedside table. O.k., I have a "brush" now I need a "Canvas".
Having successfully scabbed a sharpener and some A4 paper from the nurse at the reception desk, I sit back into my chair and close my eyes, letting my mind wander about for inspiration.
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