Sip of Assistance

Chapter 2

I’d had my fair share of scrapes and bruises working all of the odd jobs I had to take when my father was sick, so blood and injuries didn't bother me and I had learned to be prepared for the obstacles by carrying a small first-aid kit in my purse.  I also carried floss, a lighter, a Tide bleach pen, aspirin, tampons, pens, post-its, and a couple protein bars.  You never know what you’re going to need.  Preparation is key.

I grabbed the stranger’s elbow and pulled him into a sitting position, prepared to check his wound.  It was then that he looked directly at me, and with his face softened, I could see that under bushy eye brows, his eyes were the blue one only finds in deep stormy seas.  He had sharp cheek bones, a strong jaw and I can recall thinking that the harsh edges were in direct contrast with the eyes before me.  Average to thin lips resided below a straight but subtly asymmetrical nose.  This imperfection only made him more handsome.  A mess of thick russet hair lay atop his head in total disarray giving that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that I guessed was actually very difficult and expensive to achieve.  That had been the moment realization hit and I knew who he was.  How could I not?  His face was on billboards, on the cover of every magazine with a target audience of females between the ages of ten and forty and he had been in film after film for the last several years.  Pushing aside my shock, I decided to deal with the situation without turning it into a fiasco.  No need to make a scene.

“Are you okay?” I asked, furrowing my brows with slight worry.

“Um, yeah… I… tripped.  I think I’m fine,” was his reply in a slightly rough throaty British accent.  His breath reeked of alcohol and it suddenly clicked why he had fallen in the first place.  He was drunk.

He tried to stand while still holding his head but his legs were wobbly and he went back down, luckily landing on his butt rather than his head again.  I grabbed his elbow, this time to keep him in his current position on the floor in front of me.

“I think you should sit for a minute.  Let me see your head.” 

It was a demand, not a question and before he could reply or protest I pulled his hand away to reveal a red scrape on the right side of his pale forehead.  I pulled out my first-aid kit and opened it up, grabbing the small disinfectant spray bottle.

“This might burn a little, but it’s just to clean it.”

I pushed his unkempt hair out of the way and he winced slightly as I sprayed before quickly leaning in and blowing on the small cut to ease the sting.  Ignoring the fact that my face was an inch away from a damn movie star and that it had been over an hour since I brushed my teeth, I continued blowing cool air until the wrinkles in his forehead smoothed with relief.  Then I leaned back and grabbed the Neosporin, gently dabbed a bit on the scrape, and placed a small flesh colored Band-Aid over it.

“All patched up, you feel all right?”

His stare was one of disbelief.

“Does your head still hurt?” I probed.

Finally he blinked several times and replied, “Yeah, got a headache though.”

I pulled out the aspirin and gave him 800 milligrams along with the bottled water I had.  To my surprise, he didn’t even eye the pills, but rather took them with hesitation.  I found it was strange because I would never take pills from a stranger, especially without inspecting them.

After swallowing he tried handing the water to me while staring again, so I tried not to make eye contact and instead told him he could hang on to it.  For what seemed like several awkward minutes we stayed like that; him looking intently at me and me avoiding his gaze, uncomfortable.  It was dead quiet and I kept wondering where the hell that secretary was or why no one came out after him.  Then, seemingly out of nowhere, he spoke.