‘Molly … hey …’ Michal said.

‘Hi … you ’K, hun? Ya looking for me?’ Molly said, twisting back to him.

‘Yes, ya, no rush, yes, someone here wants to see you … visitor from …’

‘She got a seat? Give her a seat and till her I’ll be there in one sec,’ Molly assured him.

‘No, no seat, no seats. Nothing. Nothing in this place. No even wheelchair for SinAID. No pads either, or no milk, no shampoo, no razors, no coffee, where’ll I put him to sit, eh?’ he went on, reddening.

‘’K, hun,’ Molly said, calmly, ‘no problem.’ She continued flicking my line with her thumb and middle finger; the nails tapped the soft plastic, gently coaxing more fluids through. ‘Tell her I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘It’s a man, he … I said he …’ said Michal, throwing his arms, defeated, in the air and turning at the door, walking away. ‘Few ticks, now, darl,’ she said to me, ignoring Michal. ‘I’ll be back … in a sec. I need to page the Reg to put a new line somewhere, this one’s in a miss. So sorry.’

All better. I kiss it better. You all better now.

‘Back in a jiffy.’

It was gruelling without Shane’s Wi-Fi.

‘That’s her. No just here, left, blonde girl, red eyes, just there, there …’ Michal said, pointing at me, his watch hanging from his wrist.

A tall man walked towards me with a flamboyant Avengers bag slung over his lean shoulder. It banged off his hipbone. He was skinny and tall like a sailboat and looked down over me, large squirrelly nut-brown eyes, neat navy cardigan zipped tight and fitted onto him like a cheese wax, beige canvas Tom’s, sallow feet, ambitious for April. He leaned his head towards his chest like a stallion being tucked under by a good rider, an appoggiatura.

‘Hey,’ he said, lifting the three fingers of his right hand and fussing with the strap of the bag.

‘Hi.’

I was so fucking glad Michal had dressed me.

‘I’m really so very sorry to hassle you. Hey, I’m Stephen,’ he said as he extended his arm for a handshake, turning his eyes downwards.

‘Oh, shit, shit, you’re bleeding, you’re, actually … fuck …’ and he trailed off, fanning his left hand over his lips.

Jesus.

You are now entering a Hospital – there may be blood and crying and dying. Buckle up.

‘Hi.’

He didn’t look like another weirdo religious converter ready to take me away from the black hole of my godlessness as I fast approached my own death.

‘Hi, lovely to meet you. Bet Hospital’s not much fun, huh?’ he said.

Correct.

‘Hi,’ I said, again.

He placed a coffee on my tray-table and lifted the man-bag off over his square head.

‘Look, I’m sorry to just … drop in … I’m Stephen,’ he said, again, and placed out his hand, again.

‘Sinéad …’ I whispered, but he already knew who I was.