𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐠𝐨𝐧𝐞; eugene roe ✔

PART NINETEEN

Word count; 2,294

Valentina

"There he is." Eugene picked out a tiny shard of glass with his tweezers, holding it up so I could see.

I winced away, "I don't need to see, thank you."

He laughed, dropping it into a small bowl he had set aside. We were back outside, sat where Eugene had fixed up the stitches on Luz's knee. After a couple of seconds of examinating my hand, he found a part by the knuckle of my pinky finger; something sharp and unnatural that, when he poked it, sent a shrill all the way through my arm and to my jaw.

"I'm surprised you couldn't feel it."

He attached a plaster to the cut that the glass had rendered, making sure it would not tighten or loosen uncomfortably as I moved my hand.

"Thank you." I smiled.

"No worries." He reciprocated my expression. "Anything else?"

My eyes dropped to my skirts, drifting along the brown fabric. Too many things else.

"No." I answered. "I should leave, anyway. You have training, right? Runs to attend?"

"Oh, no. Those are just to keep the men distracted. The other medics and I were just going to practise some procedures to at least say we did something."

"Like what?"

"Stitching."

At that, we both erupted into laughter for no apparant reason.

"Why is it that you cannot tie off a stitch?"

"It has just never worked for me." I tittered.

"Well, I won't always be there to help you." He stood up.

His tone wasn't dejected and yet it inflicted sorrow, like the thought as a child that one day you would grow up.

"Where are you going?"

"Come on."

I followed him into the house, all the way through the art gallery and into the kitchen. I remembered when we had both entered the room before, led by me, and sought out glasses. In fact, the same bottle of brandy still sat idle on the counter, moved by someone who thought it was still in use. I approached it as Eugene continued in the opposite direction.

"Do you want some?" I proposed sarcastically, holding up the bottle proudly.

"No thank you." He replied happily.

"Are you sure?"

"I don't like brandy, Fritz."

His words slipped out absent-mindedly as he scanned through a cupboard. I didn't register them, not until the memory of him never actually taking a sip of his glass flashed through my head.

"You don't like brandy?" I echoed.

He straightened himself, realising his mistake, "No, no I do not."

"What about wine?" I prevailed, beaming, putting the bottle back down.

He had started to busy himself in another cabinet but halted, facing me, "I don't like any drink. Booze, that is. Water's okay." He chuckled.

I furrowed my brows, "So why did you offer me a drink?"

"Don't you remember?" He turned back to his search. "I didn't want to be interrogated by my pals."

"Despite how you don't drink?"

"Despite how I don't drink." He murmured. "You were a mess, Fritz, I couldn't leave you alone. What kind of man would that make me?"