‘Only when I feel like it.’ I take a cigarette, let her give me a light, and thank her.
We say goodbye to each other, then I stick my earbuds in, put on some music, and turn it up so loud that I can just about stand it.
The bass is thudding through my head. With every step I take and every drag I pull from the cigarette, I calm down a little more. I reach the small park at the front of the clinic and drop down onto a bench.
Inside me there is still this emptiness, which now fills with images of Nyla.
When she stitched up my cut on the head yesterday, her overprotectiveness was out of place, but today she was a fantastic doctor. She knew which move I was going to make next, as if she had looked into the future while I was stuck in the present.
Into a future in which the worst possible scenario for her would come to pass.
With the music in my ears, I look around, wanting to get rid of these heavy thoughts.
The subtle scent of freshly mown grass and a salty breeze drifting in from the ocean hangs in the air. The sun makes the flower heads in the beds glow and paints intricate patterns on the gravel path beside the deciduous trees, while on a shady bench an older woman sips from her paper cup, her gaze absently fixed on the blooming cherry trees.
Her small nose catches my eye, then her pointed chin. She looks like an older version of…
Unimportant.
I take a deep drag on my cigarette, hold my breath for a moment, tilt my head back and release the smoke slowly into the sky. Above me, little puff clouds tumble about against a deep blue backdrop. Soft as cotton. Pure. Untouched.
The music fades, the next song starts with a guitar solo. Everything inside me is music. Just as the corners of my mouth lift, something moves to my right.
Nyla.
She’s coming toward me through the park. A few meters away, she stops, her gaze fixed on my cigarette. A strange kind of shock dominates her expression. She signals me to take the headphones out of my ears.
‘Smokers have a two to four times higher risk of heart attack than non-smokers,’ she says as soon as I can hear her. And there she is again, little Miss Worst Case from yesterday, worried and excessively cautious. ‘We just had a man in the ambulance who…’
I’m aware of that, but I still don’t want to let horror stories dictate my life, and she shouldn’t either. Nevertheless, it seems to be something like her favorite pastime, even though it’s obviously spoiling her mood.
‘Some studies suggest that smokers are less likely to develop Parkinson’s.’ I take an especially deep drag on my cigarette. ‘Nicotine appears to have a protective effect on certain nerve cells.’
No smile, not the slightest hint of a sparkle in her eyes. Instead, she backs away further when I release the smoke from my lungs, even though I make sure to direct the fumes away from her. ‘And how is that relevant when every second smoker dies prematurely from the consequences of smoking?’
I feel the disappointment at not having made her even crack a smile. ‘Do you actually know that you have a really creepy facial expression when you say things like that?’
She folds her arms across her chest. ‘It’s just the truth. Right now ,you’re healthy and you think it will always stay that way, but it won’t.’
‘Exactly because of that.’ Who has what risk when and where and for what and why is not something you should think about for too long. What good would it do anyway?
My cigarette has burned down; I stub it out and throw it in the trash can.
‘We all have to take care of ourselves, our health is the most valuable thing we have.’ A plea blazes in her eyes. It’s as if it really matters to her that I live to be at least a hundred, even though she doesn’t know me at all. ‘Don’t be one of those people who only realize that when it’s too late.’
Too late.
Whether I want to or not, her words echo inside me, touching something in me that is better left undisturbed.
Too late.
Only with difficulty do I manage to tear myself away from her gaze and her words. Looking for a distraction, I glance up at the sky.
I point with my index finger at the cloud above us. ‘Don’t you think it looks like a goat?’
‘What is that supposed to…?’
‘Up there in front is the head, the ears are a bit big, but that still passes. And there’s the belly.’ I glance at her briefly but can’t tell whether she’s ready to step off her unnecessary mental merry-go-round. ‘The goat is in top shape; it probably eats only the best organic grass and keeps away from all harmful substances.’
