“Fuuuuuckkkkk!” he shouted, kicking his limb out of my reach.
“Stay still!” I urged him, trying to stay stern. Get him propped back up on the seat as I held on to his leg and kept the shower firmly on the sole of his foot.
“Stupidity on a grand scale,” came out of my mouth. I didn’t mean to offend or scold him, but it was the only thing that made sense. His and mine.
“I was fucking drunk,” he hissed, tears running down his face. “Fuck that hurts. Enough. Please.”
“Nope. At least twenty minutes is recommended, if you want to be able to walk on it this week. Probably not.”
“I’ve got first aid training,” he sobbed. “Just… Fuuuuck!”
“I’m a doctor,” I groaned.
“You? A doctor,” he wailed as I moved the showerhead closer. “It’s fucking torture!”
“Well, perhaps you shouldn’t have fallen asleep on my deckchair.” Gosh, I was rude.
“Well, perhaps you should mind your own business?”
Okay. Now I actually stopped. What the hell was I doing? I was in a hotel bathroom with a stranger, and I was making him howl in pain with a freaking showerhead? I had it on some kind of pulse setting, the jets feeling like tiny needles against the top of my hand… Yes. He was probably right. I was torturing him. And his foot was…bright red. Like, burnt-to-a-crisp-in-the-sun red. Erythema with slight oedema visible on the pad of the sole, risk of second-degree burns, and if not kept clean…
I changed tactics. I stood myself up, still with his leg in a firm grip and changed the setting on the showerhead, pushing buttons on the weird thermostat until I had a soft flow of cold water running over the back of my hand. Then I gently sat myself down on the floor with his foot on my lap and softly swayed the water over the sole of his foot.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“Yes. Sorry. You’ve got severe sunburn on yoursole.”
“No shit.”
“Kind of shit,” I agreed. “Please let me cool it down, then I have some burn gel and perhaps a painkiller to take the edge off. I wouldn’t walk on this one today, if you can help it.”
“Okay.” He wasn’t even looking at me, just sitting there on the toilet as I got my shorts soaked from the shower. Sat in a puddle of water.
In a hotel bathroom.
What the fuck, Universe?
“So…” he said, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I promise I am usually better than this. I’m like…responsible and adult.”
“I’m forty…tomorrow.” I smiled weakly, hoping to lift the mood. “On holiday with my parents because I can’t get my shit together.”
Slight truth.
“Turned forty-one at Christmas. Still get drunk and hungover and fall asleep on other people’s deckchairs. Honestly, I was… Fuck.”
Another sore patch as I moved the water over his heel.
“That water is fucking cold, I can’t actually feel my toes now.”
“A good sign. Fifteen minutes to go.”
Another tear rolled down his cheek. I didn’t blame him. I knew how sore his skin must be. “It’s eleven-ish in the morning, sun came out, what, five hours ago? You’ve been baking for hours, no wonder.”
“Not on purpose.”
I wasn’t being cruel, just stating facts, and he was.
Damnit. Crying.
