Sewing eyelids back on is low priority, I guess. So after being thoroughly poked, prodded, X-rayed, and given a deeper appreciation for the 19th century British soldier with his leather stock (what in Gawd name were they thinking?) before finally getting the piece of hard plastic out from under my jaw and a hard piece of fiberglass wrapped around my leg, I'm rolled into a ward and tucked into a bed around what must be close to dawn.
I wake from a doze with the memory of the other car. Not the accident itself or the momentary terror of the moment before, but afterward. The jerking motion it made a couple moments after I picked my head up from the steering wheel.
The son of a bitch tried to drive away.
I don't know if it the notion that there such horrible people in the world or just the memory itself that pushes me over the edge, but suddenly I'm sobbing. I'm sobbing and I'm miserable and there's no one and I really wish someone would hold me and the wonderful man with the brilliant smile and the nice scent and comforting voice is probably sleeping somewhere not giving a stupid Yank a second thought...
He doesn't hold me, but he does sit on the edge of the bed and hold my hand as he briefly rummages through the drawers of the bed stand for a box of tissues.
That coverall is very orange.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why..." Oh gawd. I am actually blubbering.
He shushes me and strokes my hair. "I spoke with the duty nurse in the A&E. She said you were a brick through the entire thing, but you've just been through a traumatic experience and that involves more than just your physical injuries. I'm impressed you went this long."
I sniffle pitifully and try to blot my nose as elegantly as one can. "I'm a mess."
He smiles gently, a curious curve of closed lips that on another man would be a smirk, but on him seems rather warm and sweet. "Yes. Yes, you are. But considering you had a head on collision, not a bad one. Other than your foot, nothing is broken. Terrible jokes aside, not even a concussion. And...hold on..." He fishes something out of his breast pocket. "I got them as straight as I could." He hands me my glasses.
"Thank you, that's very kind of you."
Because of the bandage I can't actually wear them, but I do hold them up to the one free eye to finally get a clear look at my companion who gives a little smile and a wave. The dark hair is utilitarian short, wash and go, though he does use a bit of gel to keep it somewhat fashionably in place. The longish face and soft angled jaw line are given definition by the chiseled lines of his eyes, nose, and lips resulting in handsomeness that is neither brutishly masculine nor androgynously pretty, but a perfect balance in between. The grey eyes regarding me are filled with somewhat amused, yet kindly, confidence. I am the stranger in his strange land and he wants to make me feel comfortable in his home.
"Is there anyone you can call?"
"No." The sniffles begin to abate. "No one local. I've only been here a few weeks. I had to call my new vet to find someone to look in on Pilot."
"Yeah, she's still getting used to city living. Hopefully that means she isn't territorial enough to give a complete stranger coming into the apartment a hard time."
"You brought her all the way from the States?"
"My best friend, wouldn't you?"
"Haven't had one since I lived at home. Too busy. Too much on the move. It wouldn't have been fair."