Impuls

Aster

– I don't like it," Gilmore says. – It shouldn't have happened.

– But it did. – She stops abruptly at the coffee machine. – Got any change?

Riley rummages through her jeans pockets and pulls out a few coins, and the round silver pounds disappear into Clark's hands faster than cards from a magician.

– You're like my wife," he mutters. – You take all the money, too.

– You're divorced! – Coins fall into the machine with a clinking sound.

– That's why I'm divorced. – Gilmore leans his shoulder against the wall. – Will you go to Ray for a replacement?

– Pow! – Clark takes out a plastic cup. – No, I'd rather pick one up myself.

– You know the whole staff. – Riley can barely contain herself from a quip. – Ask Harmon, and he'll send you someone… normal.

The woman snorts.

– I'm not crazy to ask James for something like that. His interns are nothing but trouble. No," she stirs her coffee thoughtfully, "you need someone else. More… fresh? Without all those fancy letters after the name, you know what I mean. And someone we know.

– There's no such thing. – Gilmore pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his inside pocket, looks at it sadly, and hides it back. – You love the letters.

Clark is silent for a minute, then says thoughtfully:

– Look, I think I know.

Chapter 6

it will all be over soon. it will be over, I said. I will stop going to memorable places, like going to the Titanic for the hundredth time, I will remember who I am, I will forget who I have not become.

It seems to Emily that the world, which until then seemed gray, as if in defiance of all laws begins to lose even more colors: a few days pass after the operation, and the sun in her pocket dims.

She doesn't believe in fairy tales: she just can't get lucky every time; her luck just flashed and burned out like a match. Maybe for some Rebecca or Dayna, something like this would have been routine, just a small touch in everyday life, but for her, being part of something-albeit a tiny team-was a new, unexplored feeling.

And in the grayness of the days, in the sameness of the minutes, the slowness of the hours, Emily returns and returns to that feeling of the heaviness of the instruments in her hands, Clark's hoarse voice, Dylan's jokes, and the smell of the operating room.

It must be some kind of jolt: Emily feels like a ball – painfully falling and bouncing off the ground, she soars upward. And even if this feeling lasts only a few minutes, it becomes something more than just an awareness of herself.

Except now she's flying down again, and no one can tell if the ground is there.

One morning she doesn't have time to brew her own coffee for work – or maybe she leaves her thermos mug at home on purpose – and walks into Connors' coffee. The small coffee shop on the corner of Maples Place and Raven Row, which occupies a tiny square space, consists of a bar counter and a few chairs and is filled with a song about cough syrup. An elderly barista – Mr. Connors himself – is singing along, wiping down the bulky coffee machine.

– A latte, please. – Emily puts four pounds on the counter. – To go.

A large Kraft glass with colored lettering on the plastic lid appears in front of her a few minutes later; Emily pours brown sugar into it, puts in cinnamon and chocolate, and then inserts a straw – the unusual way she borrowed it from some movie. At first, she was afraid she'd burn herself, but lattes are rarely too hot.

The smell of coffee and cookies is soothing, and Emily lets herself linger at the counter for a moment, gazing out a large window with paper airplanes glued to it, at Turner Street. A stack of colored squares is freely available on the windowsill, and Emily, unable to resist, folds an unsophisticated figure.

And then – very unexpectedly for herself – she pulls out a pen and writes on the fold: NEVROLOGY. A piece of scotch tape and the bright orange airplane finds its place among others like it.

Emily herself does not know why she did it, but Mr. Connors does not say a word, but only grins into his gray beard, and Johnson feels a little better.

The door creaks open, and two voices, male and female, fill the coffee shop with frantic energy:

– What, R&H coffee no longer works for us?

– We need to drive more carefully.

– How did you tie these factors together?!

Still looking out the window, Emily freezes in place: she recognizes the Clark couple perfectly. In the reflection, she sees Charlie's disheveled curls and the perfectly styled (by chaos and wind) blond hair of the neurosurgeon whose name she never learned.

– Double, and more caffeine," Clark voices unnamed. – And for him…

– Milk and syrup! – Charlie finishes.

– No coffee? – The barista says cautiously.

– Half a cup," the psychiatrist graciously allows.

Emily lowers her gaze and pulls her head into her shoulders, trying to blend into the space; but trouble evades her – Clark-whose-woman quickly picks up her cup, says something to her brother in a low voice, and leaves, closing the door carefully behind her. Charlie is left waiting, leaning against the bar and dropping the incessant calls on the phone every now and then.