He doesn’t play it yet; he just cleans it out.
I throw my attention back to the cold one as he rifles through my bag.
The first thing he tugs out is a glossy magazine.
The cover pages are scratched and torn at the corners, folded from being stuffed carelessly into the bag.
He smoothens it out.
The gleams of torchlight dance over the sharp features of a long-dead celebrity. I didn’t know who she was until I read this magazine, her article, and all she talked about in the printed interview was her new television show and a small bit on how she likes to eat yoghurt—mixed in a bowl with skim milk, makes it extra watery, and dipping in one berry at a time, which I guess was supposed to bedifferentandspecial, but it just curled my lips in annoyance.
The cold warrior turns over the magazine in his hands for a moment before, without a word, he tosses it aside.
It thumps to the rock nudged against his right boot, then he reaches into my backpack again.
This time, he lures out the thickness of a book. A bowed paperback, pages fanned from mishandling, with that old book smell trailing off of it, and a satisfying cracked spine.
He tosses it.
George Owell’s1984lands on the magazine with a thud. It slides an inch down, then settles against the edge of his boot.
I’ve read it a few times now, and each time I’m only marginally closer to understanding it. I get the premise. It’s the writing that gives me a headache.
Maybe my comprehension skills aren’t all that.
Maybe the language is just too dated for me.
Either way, I don’t feel done with it, and so the sullen look I spare on the book lingers—
And the warrior continues rooting through my stuff.
One after the other, he steals an item from my bag, considers it, then either tosses it to the rock on the right, or the rock on the left.
Two piles.
And with each addition, I’m less certain of what the piles mean.
His fingers dig into cardboard as he studies the words printed along a paracetamol box. The crinkle of foil packaging comes as he sifts out the meds, eyes them for the quickest moment, then tosses them to the right. He’s either letting me keep magazines and books or denying me basic painkillers.
I’d bet on the second one.
The look I aim at the right-side pile is brimmed with longing. Wish I could pretend to be the sort of person who puts logic over wants, who is smart enough to long for the return of the painkillers—because I actually need those come time of the month. But I’m selfish, or maybe it’s because I grew up in a time of instant gratification, but whatever the reason is, I want the magazine, I want the book, the felt tip pens he discards next.
The line of my mouth slants.
Then comes the faint rustle of soft plastic, and I watch as he tugs out a full packet of pads.
My brows lift before my gaze does.
The harsh crimson firelight dances over his features. It flickers over the deep metal hue of the chain-link armour, draped over his shoulders.
The pad of his thumb runs over the plastic packet, smoothing out the wrinkles to make out the text.
He takes a moment.
No warmth on his cheeks, nothing to heat the ice that lives in him. No realisation strikes him, no sign of understanding what he’s looking at, what the pads are for.
He considers them with that inherent coldness of his, then he makes a decision.
