He took a toffee from a large bag on his lap, then offered them to us. Raymond took one; I declined.
The thought of malleable confectionery, warmed to body temperature on Sammy’s groin
(albeit encased in flannel pajamas and a blanket) was repellent.
Both Sammy and Raymond were audible masticators. While they chomped, I looked at my hands, noticing that they looked raw, almost burned,
but glad of the fact that the alcohol rub had removed the germs and bacteria which lurked everywhere in the hospital. And, presumably, on me.
“What about you two—did you have far to come today?” Sammy asked. “Separately, I mean,” he added quickly, looking at me.
“I live on the South Side,” Raymond said, “and Eleanor’s... you’re in the West End, aren’t you?”
I nodded, not wishing to disclose my place of residence any more precisely.
Sammy asked about work, and I let Raymond tell him, being content to observe.
Sammy looked rather vulnerable, as people are wont to do when they are wearing pajamas in public,
but he was younger than I’d originally thought—not more than seventy, I’d guess—with remarkably dark blue eyes.
“I don’t know anything about graphic design,” Sammy said. “It sounds very fancy. I was a postman all my days.
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