I lay back with my eyes closed. “Not lentil,” I said. He returned after a few minutes and slowly, so slowly,
I eased myself into a seated position, keeping the towels wrapped around me.
He’d heated some tomato soup in a mug, and placed it on the table in front of me.
“Spoon?” I said. He did not reply, but went off to the kitchen and came back with one.
I held it in my right hand, trembling violently, and tried to sip some.
I shook so much that it spilled onto the towels—I realized that there was no way I would be able to get the liquid from the mug to my mouth.
“Aye, I thought you might be best just trying to drink it,” he said gently, and I nodded.
He sat on the armchair and watched me as I sipped, neither of us speaking.
I set the mug down when I’d finished, feeling the warmth of it inside me, the sugar and the salt in my veins.
The ticking of the Power Rangers clock above the fireplace was exceptionally loud.
I finished the glass of water and, without speaking, he went to refill it.
“Thank you,” I said when he returned and handed it to me. He said nothing, stood up and left the room.
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