eyes. “Are you broken?”
“ Huh?” I asked, wobbling back and forth. “Yea. Fine. Groovy. Don’t worry about it.” (At least that’s what I think I said. I wasn’t sure my mouth was cooperating with my brain just yet.)
The girl frowned. I don’t think she believed me.
“ Really,” I sputtered, catching some drool on its way to my chin, “don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.” This was getting embarrassing. I had enough sense to hear myself now, but no matter how hard I tried, my voice kept slurring. I was having trouble forming the words, and what I’d said wasn’t exactly true. Sure, I’d taken a number of beatings, sure, I’d even been knocked out cold a few times, but in all my fights, I had never taken a hit like that before. And it wasn’t a temple shot either; she’d hit me dead on the forehead. If Phil Collins had connected with that pipe, it couldn’t have done much worse. But at the moment I wasn’t concerned about brain damage; I was too busy staring at her damn hair. It flowed in silken waves down over her shoulders, a black background that framed her face perfectly. Hiding it under that cap may have been a breach of the Geneva Conventions.
Perturbed, she waved her hand in front of me.
My attention drifted back to her eyes. They had a way of pulling you in. Right now they were fixed on my temple.
“ Traveler, your durability is admirable, but from my perspective, you do not look fine at all.”
“ Really, it’s alright. I’ve—I’ve had worse.”
Through another wave of neato sparkles, I noticed that my seatmate was busy removing her gloves. They were thin forearm-length ones that reminded me of that movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s . Her motions were methodical, and all the while, her eyes stayed trained on my forehead.
“ Very well,” she replied amiably. “I will accept your contention that you have received more severe bludgeonings in the past—however, at present you are bleeding and need tending to.”
At her words, I noticed the warm trickle making its way down my forehead. I went to reach into my snack pack for a napkin when her hand met my brow.
“ Hold still,” she ordered. “Let me treat the wound.”
The inflections in her voice had vanished, and only the soothing monotone remained. I felt dizzy, and I wanted nothing more than to do as she asked, nothing more than sit still and be cared for. It was nice. It was soothing. She was touching my brow lightly with two fingers. They were cold, and as her fingers tracked toward the source of the bleeding, goose bumps rose on the back of my neck. With her other hand, she drew out a black handkerchief from her pants pocket and applied pressure to my forehead. Head wounds are notoriously bloody. Steady pressure would keep the cut from bleeding all over the place. It seemed she knew what she was doing.
“ Good,” she said. “Now lean back and relax.”
She guided my head back to the seat rest all the while holding steady pressure.
“ Sorry about the handkerchief…” I blubbered. “You seem to like black.”
She nodded, not seeming to get the joke. “I do. Black is my second favorite color. It never stands out nor can it be stained.” She spoke of the color with the same professional pride chefs use when describing their knives.
“ I guess that’s true,” I said. “You wear it well, by-the-way. It suits you.”
“ Indeed,” she said absently. Her arm was blocking most of my vision, but I could smell the faint scent of lavender. The gentle touch, the care and concern, it made me feel fuzzy. I didn’t want it to stop. It reminded me of when Dr. Montgomery had taken care of me in the hospital.
“ Just rest here for a while longer.” She suppressed a cough and cleared her throat. “The wound is not a deep one. The dermis remains intact. You will not require stitching.”
I raised an eyebrow. She looked my age—maybe younger—but few if any of my classmates knew that the word ‘dermis’ had
“ Huh?” I asked, wobbling back and forth. “Yea. Fine. Groovy. Don’t worry about it.” (At least that’s what I think I said. I wasn’t sure my mouth was cooperating with my brain just yet.)
The girl frowned. I don’t think she believed me.
“ Really,” I sputtered, catching some drool on its way to my chin, “don’t worry about it. I’ve had worse.” This was getting embarrassing. I had enough sense to hear myself now, but no matter how hard I tried, my voice kept slurring. I was having trouble forming the words, and what I’d said wasn’t exactly true. Sure, I’d taken a number of beatings, sure, I’d even been knocked out cold a few times, but in all my fights, I had never taken a hit like that before. And it wasn’t a temple shot either; she’d hit me dead on the forehead. If Phil Collins had connected with that pipe, it couldn’t have done much worse. But at the moment I wasn’t concerned about brain damage; I was too busy staring at her damn hair. It flowed in silken waves down over her shoulders, a black background that framed her face perfectly. Hiding it under that cap may have been a breach of the Geneva Conventions.
Perturbed, she waved her hand in front of me.
My attention drifted back to her eyes. They had a way of pulling you in. Right now they were fixed on my temple.
“ Traveler, your durability is admirable, but from my perspective, you do not look fine at all.”
“ Really, it’s alright. I’ve—I’ve had worse.”
Through another wave of neato sparkles, I noticed that my seatmate was busy removing her gloves. They were thin forearm-length ones that reminded me of that movie, Breakfast at Tiffany’s . Her motions were methodical, and all the while, her eyes stayed trained on my forehead.
“ Very well,” she replied amiably. “I will accept your contention that you have received more severe bludgeonings in the past—however, at present you are bleeding and need tending to.”
At her words, I noticed the warm trickle making its way down my forehead. I went to reach into my snack pack for a napkin when her hand met my brow.
“ Hold still,” she ordered. “Let me treat the wound.”
The inflections in her voice had vanished, and only the soothing monotone remained. I felt dizzy, and I wanted nothing more than to do as she asked, nothing more than sit still and be cared for. It was nice. It was soothing. She was touching my brow lightly with two fingers. They were cold, and as her fingers tracked toward the source of the bleeding, goose bumps rose on the back of my neck. With her other hand, she drew out a black handkerchief from her pants pocket and applied pressure to my forehead. Head wounds are notoriously bloody. Steady pressure would keep the cut from bleeding all over the place. It seemed she knew what she was doing.
“ Good,” she said. “Now lean back and relax.”
She guided my head back to the seat rest all the while holding steady pressure.
“ Sorry about the handkerchief…” I blubbered. “You seem to like black.”
She nodded, not seeming to get the joke. “I do. Black is my second favorite color. It never stands out nor can it be stained.” She spoke of the color with the same professional pride chefs use when describing their knives.
“ I guess that’s true,” I said. “You wear it well, by-the-way. It suits you.”
“ Indeed,” she said absently. Her arm was blocking most of my vision, but I could smell the faint scent of lavender. The gentle touch, the care and concern, it made me feel fuzzy. I didn’t want it to stop. It reminded me of when Dr. Montgomery had taken care of me in the hospital.
“ Just rest here for a while longer.” She suppressed a cough and cleared her throat. “The wound is not a deep one. The dermis remains intact. You will not require stitching.”
I raised an eyebrow. She looked my age—maybe younger—but few if any of my classmates knew that the word ‘dermis’ had
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