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– I tried. I didn't like it.

Clark shakes off the ash.

– I don't like drinking either," she says. – It's bitter. Better to drown your sorrows in chocolate than in whiskey, don't you think?

Emily nods.

She could stare at Clark forever and still not see all the details: three rows of earrings in her ear, a thin scar on her temple, a large mole on her cheek, traces of crumbled mascara in this weather, a thin neck without a scarf, but with a rubber cord (I wonder what kind of pendant it is? ); in her head, Emily was sure, a thousand devils, framed by angelic-white disheveled hair; and a thin bracelet that shone silver, hiding back in its sleeve as Clark put a cigarette to his lips once more.

London is cramped and moody, but it's the one that brings them together again and again.

Again and again.

Round and round.

– Miss Clark, can I ask you a question?

– Dr. Clark," the neurosurgeon immediately corrects her. – "Calling me 'Miss' makes me feel like a Victorian loser. And may I ask you a question?

Emily decides she has nothing to lose:

– What kind of ice cream do you like?

– What?" Clark laughs. – Is there a catch here?

– Please answer! – Emily folds her palms in a pleading gesture.

– Anything out of the ordinary," Clark considers. – Caramel and salt, perhaps. Green tea with lemon. Mango sherbet.

– Surely these are the flavors of ice cream?

– It would be boring if I liked vanilla or chocolate. – Clark lights a new cigarette. – 'I don't really like sweets,' she admits. – I can't even stand bitter chocolate.

They stand, almost touching elbows, wool coat and taslan coat, and Emily lets go: in steps, minute by minute, by minute, but she lets go; and her head feels better. The cold climbs up her collar, crawls up her back like an icy snake, bites her heels.

She's always freezing next to Clark.

– I'm cold to look at you," Lorraine says, pursing her lips as if contemplating what she can do. – Take my coffee. – She holds out her glass. – As long as it's hot.

– But…

– Or I'll leave," Clark declares. – You don't want me to go, do you? So drink.

Unexpectedly, Emily awkwardly takes the painted glass – R&H, spicy mocha, cinnamon on top – and smiles gratefully.

– That's better," the neurosurgeon nods contentedly. – There were winds all the time where I grew up," she says suddenly. – The people who came here said you could fly to Ireland on them.

– You're not from London? – Surprised Emily.

– No," Clark shakes his head. – I'm from Southport. It's a tiny little town in the West, where it rains all the time and the wind knocks you off your feet. It's dull and gray, but it's not much different from London.

– It must be insanely far away!

– Not really. Six hours by car on the toll roads. On the free roads, ten.

– Then, yes, it really isn't," Emily agrees.

– Well," Clark takes a comfortable grip on his cigarette, "and where are you from, Miss Johnson?

– From the other side of the island," the nurse smiles. – 'Thurso, Scotland. It's a sort of settlement in the northernmost part. It's awfully dull there, too! But from the windows of my house you could see the floating lighthouses of the island of Hoy-you have no idea how many there are, probably more than two dozen! When I was a kid, I thought they were wandering lights, and I made a wish every time they came on.

– And what did you wish for, Miss Johnson?

Clark looks at her with a strange look – lively and warm, leaving no trace of cynicism or ice; in those gray eyes – the autumn sky.

– To become a doctor, of course. – Emily sighs sadly. – You probably know what it's like to dream of something more than just working in a supermarket at a gas station. I so wanted to be… useful, or something. Even though my mother kept telling me that I should go on with her and my father. But that probably didn't matter.

– So," Clark runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth out the disheveled strands, "your parents wanted you to be an entrepreneur?

– Mm-hmm." Emily jerked her head and the unruly strands of brown hair parted over her shoulders, "and yours?

– I have no idea. – Neurosurgeon shrugs. – I grew up in an orphanage.

Emily feels silly, awkwardly adjusts her coat, circles the plastic lid on her coffee with her frozen fingers, and, looking down, gibbering:

– I'm sorry, I didn't know, I really, really…

– Oh my God! – Clark presses his index finger to her lips. – Silence!

It's getting hot – scalding-sparkling, and Clark's hands are infinitely warm, gentle, affectionate; and even if it lasts a second – the smell of menthol, the silk of her fingertips – Emily's eyes flash in salutes in front of her.

– Stop apologizing all the time, it's annoying.

Emily nods:

– I'm sorry… Ow!

Clark rolls his eyes.

– You know what, Johnson?

The nurse looks at her frightened, expecting a catch.