I glance at the closed blinds and see there’s daylight peeking through the edges. “You waited?”
“I hope you don’t mind,” Mark says. “I cleared a spot and have been doing college work. Are you hungry? You didn’t eat much earlier.”
I’m not hungry, but I know the importance of eating. I burn a lot more calories compensating for the lost end of my leg than I ever did fuelling it. “I’ll get myself something,” I say. I look around myself, making Mark drop his hand from my face. “Do you mind passing me a pair of trousers?” I nod to the drawers. Usually, I have a clean pair set out for myself to change into in the morning. A lot of preparation goes into my morning routine being done in darkness.
Mark sifts through the clothes, eventually picking out a loose pair of sweatpants. He looks apprehensive as he hands them to me. “You’re bruised and swollen. It’ll probably be better to leave the prosthetic off for a few days…” He runs his hand through his hair, mussing up the dark strands. “If you can. I know you don’t like that.”
I accept the sweatpants, humming noncommittally.
Mark swallows. “Here.” He reaches for the black scarf, folded neatly on the bedside table.
“No, I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Mark nods and leaves the room.
I set the sweatpants down next to me and examine the tools at my disposal. Crutches…broken prosthetic. “Be realistic, idiot,” I mutter to myself. With a show of willpower, I set the prosthetic aside. And because my willpower only goes so far, I switch off the light, so the room is dark. I pull on a fresh sleeve over my stump, happier since there’s no danger of accidentally seeing it, and then tug on the sweatpants.
I need to give my leg time to heal. There’s no getting around that. And that means not wearing the prosthetic for a few days while the swelling goes down. I switch on the light again and use the crutches to leave the room. Mark is waiting at the breakfast bar, a tablet in front of him. He glances at me, and I don’t miss the relief in his expression when he sees I’m not wearing the prosthetic.
“You must be starving,” I say.
Mark shrugs. “I had some of the lasagne you didn’t finish.”
I go to the fridge and survey the orderly tubs. “Any preference for dinner?” I glance over my shoulder. “Or do you prefer takeaway?”
“Whatever you feel like having,” Mark says. “So long as you don’t mind sharing your meals with me?”
“I don’t,” I say. I take out a tub of spaghetti bolognese and reheat two portions in the oven.
“Are you feeling any better?” Mark asks. “Pain-wise, I mean.”
“Much better.” I join him at the kitchen island, sitting opposite him. “It was just a jolt, earlier.”
“‘Just’?” Mark questions. “With that amount of pain, you can’t use the word ‘just.’”
I shrug.
In the lapse of silence, I nod at Mark’s tablet. “College work?”
“I’m not as prepared as you,” Mark says, gaze darting to my coffee table of work, “But I’m getting a start on the midterms.”
I huff. “My professors don’t know what to make of me. I went from missing classes for sports clubs to submitting midterms weeks ahead of time.”
Mark’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve submitted the midterms already? Titles only went out two weeks ago.”
“I used to spend so much time at sports clubs. I had to fill the time with something.” I shrug. “Besides, I like the classes. The readings are interesting.”
“You’re doing accounting, right?”
“Yeah.”
Mark stares at me, doubt written plainly across his face.
I grin, though I feel the stirrings of shyness creeping up. “You do architecture, right?”
“Architecture technologies.”
“And you enjoy it?”
