October, 2016.

New York City.

– Oh my God, that's blood! Fuck, are you bleeding? –

The fat and short lady raised her face –which resembled a hungry bulldog's– and looked at the saloon entrance-like door right behind Malik's shoulders. One could see in her eyes the same fear one feels when they're alone in the house and hear a strange noise. Malik stopped, with the kebab only half-filled with iceberg lettuce, tomatoes and onions. He resisted the temptation to turn towards the kitchen, so that the lady would believe that there was nothing to worry about or, in the best of options, convince her that she never heard that scream that might only have belonged to a plucked owl in the first place. So, he went on as if nothing had happened, keeping on filling the extra-large kebab portion, suited to the XL size of the client. He started humming, as instinct suggested him, just in time to dull the confusing mix of pans and plates making noise and whining coming from the kitchen.

Malik looked at the woman again and saw her becoming rigid, her lips turning downwards.

He gave her a forced smile and rolled the kebab, getting rid of the excessive tin foil. He brought it to the lady as one would have a gigantic plush bear won at target shooting at some fair. She thought about it, took the kebab, looked at it; she was obviously scared shitless that whatever happened behind the kitchen's door had moved right into her lunch. The cook followed her leaving with his eyes until she arrived on the exit. And there she was: with the kebab in her hand, and the bag thrown over her shoulder, the red glasses pulled down to the tip of her nose, and a cryptic stare that he interpreted as, is everything okay?

Malik forced himself to keep his lips spread in an unnatural smile and in order to convince her he nodded as a goodbye, hoping that she understood that not only she could leave, but that it was better that she would. Eventually, the woman disappeared behind the door, moving into the impetuous flow of human beings walking quickly on the sidewalk. Malik huffed, putting his knives and the foil back on the counter. Now, there came the best part: trying to control himself without falling for the temptation to stick one of the knives in Desmond's forehead, and choke Altair with the tin foil. Self-control, he told himself, self-control. At that time, there were no other clients to be seen, so he felt free to act and without even taking off his gloves, he opened the kitchen's door with a sound bang, his hand slapping the door with its open palm, and walking into the kitchen as if he was Egypt's tenth plague.

– Who the fuck is bleeding, you idiot?! –

He asked with the strength of thunder, while the door was swinging back and forth until it stopped. The scene was even worse than what he was expecting: Altair was leaning on the main steel counter, standing perfectly still, his profile's lines distorted by the vapor coming from the broth boiling next to him, while Desmond was in front of him, bandaging up his left hand. On the ground and on the kitchen counter there were some red drops splattered around, definitely blood. Once the situation was clear, Malik glared at Desmond, who was staring at him, unable to move and trembling like a small rabbit at a veterinarian's; basically, looking like a poor moron. Altair, on his side of things, had settled on moving his annoyed stare on Malik without bothering to react any further. Malik swallowed down an imprecation, thinking that those two really made a great couple together: one mute and the other dumb. That said, given that they were cousins, they must have shared some genetics after all. Malik closed the distance grunting, put his hand on his hips and stared at Altair's bleeding bandaged hand, a Tarantino-worthy visual cut.

– What happened here? –

He asked, trying to soften his tone and his glare. He failed.

– He was cutting onions. –

Said Desmond, verging on a panic attack.

– It's my fault. –

He added at once. Malik stared at Desmond, silently inviting him to elaborate on that statement.

– Well, I proposed something dumb, a small game with potatoes and carrots, but then… –

Desmond stopped; Malik's homicidal glare was chilling his blood. Altair came to his defense.

– It was just an accident. It's nothing. –

Malik's attention moved on to his wounded colleague, looking at him in a softer way just because he was in fact bleeding. Altair held his stare, without letting out any hint of pride, or of challenge. Malik nodded towards Altair's hand.

– Let me see. –

Desmond almost lost it.

– Are you insane? No, no, no, you don't want to see what's happened to him, trust me. It's disgusting, we need to bring him to the hospital! –

While he was ranting, the man holding the tight bandage around Altair's wound was trembling like a small tree branch thrown around by the wind.

– Fuck, will you calm down already? –

Malik shouted, this close to grab the first nearby pan and hit him until he changed facial features. But he hadn't lost his own shit yet: if Desmond couldn't control himself, at least he should have. In the madness brought by the situation, the calmest and least interested in the matter was actually Altair, who didn't even look as if he was feeling much pain if at all. Either he was a very good stoic, or he was really good at lying.

– Let me see, I told you. –

Malik repeated, with a tone that didn't allow for a reply. Desmond's face contorted in a snarl; he looked like a child whose mother had forced him to swallow some disgusting vegetable. He breathed in deeply – an exaggeration, as if he was getting ready for a round of bungee jumping. Altair was looking at his cousin without talking, in silent moral support; Malik's tensed hands were staying, still, on his hips. Desmond started to unroll the bandage, muttering in revulsion. When the hand was unwrapped, Malik analyzed the scene: the amount of blood Altair had lost was worthy of a small amateur horror movie and there was a cut between thumb and index that didn't look too deep but wouldn't be dealt with just with a band-aid. Desmond was right –it was a bit disgusting. That said, Malik was not an easily impressionable man, and it was easy to keep his cool. So he declared:

– Yes, I'd say we need a hospital. –

Desmond immediately jumped in the conversation.

– Let's call Lucy right now! –

Altair shrugged, not exactly convinced.

– I don't know if it's the case… –

Desmond had already left, though, with the same speed as a hungry man put in the middle of a free food offering, letting Altair's waist hang with the bandages stained in red. In his dramatic run, he had attacked the door, as if he was some kind of quarterback, without leaving a trace behind him. Malik sighed and shook his head, grabbed the bandages and wrapped them around Altair's hand again. Altair moved downwards his stare, entertained by the task.

– It's not even so bad. Maybe I won't even need stitches. –

Said Altair, highly misdiagnosing himself.

– You'll need at least six. –

Malik answered, killing with two words Altair's excessive-and-tending-towards-stupidity optimism. He stayed focused on the circular movement of the bandage that was his first stint as a nurse, while Altair put his free hand on the steel counter right at his back.

– I can keep on working. –

Malik wrapped the bandage around his hand for a last time, voluntarily tying it tighter than necessary, a gesture without any courtesy whatsoever.

– That's bullshit. –

He commented, as dry as the sex life of a woman going through her menopause, and he raised his eyes on his co-worker's face, seeing a shadow of pain for the first time. Altair took a deep breath, admiring Malik's work in bandaging his hand up, and noticing that the wound wasn't bleeding anymore. Malik, on his part, looked a bit proudly at his nurse-worthy work.

– Thank you. –

Altair whispered with his lips pressing together. Malik tried to lighten up the situation.

– Well, compliments, though. It's remarkable, after just one month. –

He smiled, knowing that his sarcasm might not be appreciated, even if he had guessed that Altair wasn't the kind of guy who got easily offended. Or maybe he was the kind of guy who didn't understand insults in the first place.

– Two months. –

The wounded man was finally talking rather than whispering, and his eyelids were as thin as cuts on a Fontana canvas. Malik, who didn't waste his grey matter to remember useless stuff, didn't let it get to him and replied without interest.

– Whatever it was. –

He shrugged, not minding his imprecision.

– Here, come. We were cutting onions and potatoes when it happened. –

Desmond's trembling voice suddenly burst inside the kitchen, saving Malik from the lack of conversational topics that he was starting to suffer from; Altair, on the other side, seemed perfectly fine with staying still and without talking, staring at him in the eyes. Lucy came in immediately behind Desmond, with the face of someone who's there to solve a problem. Her face was scrunched in worry, but it didn't touch the beauty of her traits.

The young owner immediately focused on Altair and, betraying some affection in her worry, put her hand on his arm. He gave her a clumsy smile and stayed like that, as serene as a Buddha on a lotus flower. Malik stayed there observing how they could communicate without words; if he hadn't known that they had been friends for a long time, he'd have thought they were together. Lucy glanced at the bandage, at the blood on the counter and the ground, and did her math quickly.

– It looks like a bad cut. –

She said with crystal-like objectivity.

– If it's disturbing, don't look, okay? –

Desmond commented out of nowhere, moving towards the group. Malik raised his eyes towards the sky, while Lucy looked at Desmond with a blank expression.

– I wouldn't want you to faint. –

The young man added, evidently not satisfied of having already said a fair amount of idiocies up to this point. Lucy's eyebrows wrinkled together and she stopped looking at Desmond, he wasn't the right person for what she had in mind.

– Malik. –

The woman started, her hand slipping from Altair's skin.

– I need you to bring him to a hospital. –

Malik went still at once.

– He can't drive. –

Lucy added, nodding towards the young man's bandaged hand. As if that was the point, of course Altair couldn't go to the hospital on his own. The question was: why him? Why did he have to deal with it when his cousin was there?

– But Desmond… –

Malik started protesting, and Lucy cut him off.

– Desmond is staying in the kitchen. –

She joined her hands behind her back.

– There aren't any new trays to get ready, he can handle it on his own. –

Altair looked at Malik expectantly, while the cook's forehead turned into a large wrinkle. That we shouldn't even be discussing this tone was irritating like a noose around your neck, but he didn't want to argue –not with his boss and certainly not in front of his co-workers. Lucy was still waiting, still as stone, and Malik broke the silence like you'd break a desiccated branch.

– I'm going to change. –

He sighed, starting to unknot his apron around his waist.

He left the kitchen without anyone interfering, passing through a hallway that smelled of fried food and going to the changing room, which was constantly humid, for the joy of the mold grouped in the tall corners of the walls. He threw the apron on the middle bench, finally free to huff with all his breath. He took off his gloves and went to the locker, grabbed his key from his pocket, put it inside the faulty lock and the locker opened with its usual squeak.

He crossed his arms on his hips and took off his shirt, then his pants. From the small windows with vasistas openings he could hear the entire orchestra typical of a Thursday evening in early October: the heels of well-dressed women walking towards the station, runners' shoes hitting the concrete, girls' stockings rubbing in between their legs, sneezing and coughing from the first colds of the year, the smell of wet leaves and the last pollens of the season falling into the sewers. He buttoned up his jeans with his head looking down at his feet. The neon's cold light was hitting him right on his neck, over his only tattoo, that he got on his eighteenth birthday: twelve stars that united themselves into the Scorpio constellation.

He put on his shirt and set on the bench to lace his shoes. He looked at his cellphone to check the time, but he was more interested in seeing if anyone had looked for him in the last few hours. Someone with two nice thighs, a nice rack, and a big mouth for her age. But no, no notifications for him. He pretended that he didn't care, took his things and turned off the light, letting the room fill only with the lights from semaphores and other shops' signs.

There was an interesting crowd that evening, covering a large spectrum of life's accidents: a woman pressing an ice bag over her black eye, a boy had a bandaged forehead and his face painted in red; then, an old man with his shirt completely unbuttoned had a rash hall over his swollen chest, another had a finger wrapped up in gauze and a small plastic container that he was guarding jealously… maybe a small, improvised recipient for his cut off finger; a girl sat with her ankle swollen as a volley ball, and an exhausted little girl running a fever slept in her father's arms.

And this, just in the queue in front of them. Imagine how many other wonders were on show in the hallway, farther down. The embarrassment, for whoever comes with the wounded, was exactly in handling people looking at you with envy in a place that stinks of death. Altair hadn't said a word since they drove off here. He was there sitting next to Malik with his legs open, his hoodie pulled up and his head down; either he knew how to entertain himself on his own, or he was sleeping under that hoodie. Malik, who was starting to feel bored, moved forward with his back and put his elbows on his knees, looking at his co-worker.

– Does it hurt? –

He asked, with professional detachment. Altair reacted immediately, which was unexpected, and raised his head; no, he wasn't sleeping at all. He shook his head slightly, which Malik figured had to mean no. He thanked him mentally for the update, at least now he was feeling at peace with his conscience.

Then he took his cellphone and checked the time: a quarter past ten.

– Malik, go home. –

Altair suddenly spoke, but without convincing Malik to stop looking at this phone. Scrolling through Facebook was certainly more interesting that attempting a conversation.

– Mh? –

He mumbled without caring, as he thumbed through a few banal and polemic updates, six-year old memes and animal videos which were either very dumb or very cute. He thought about cutting off some friendships from his account.

– I can take a taxi, you don't have to stay. It's useless. –

Altair looked down at his bandaged hand, thinking that he must have convinced him.

– Lucy would murder me. –

Malik replied, implying that he only was there because their boss ordered him to; rude, on his part, but honest.

– If it's because of her don't worry. Go home. I'll tell her I told you to go. –

Malik recognized that there was a certain power in those words, an implication that Altair probably didn't even realize he was making, but which burned him all the same: the idea that Altair might suggest him how to behave with Lucy just because they were very close friends. An advantage he always would have, being a privileged employee, because he had deeper ties with the woman paying their wages; and this even if he arrived in the shop months after Malik, who, raising his eyes from the screen, glared at him.

– Don't force me to send you somewhere else. –

Altair stared at him, expressionless. The chances that he hadn't caught the bait, or that he just didn't want to argue, were both plausible. Malik's cellphone rang, interrupting the moment of emptiness wrapped up in silence. It was Lucy –Malik picked it up.

– Lucy. –

– Is he in? –

She said, skipping the formalities.

– No, we're waiting. –

– How is he doing? –

Lucy was trying to bury a small trace of worry under her voice, but she wasn't succeeding too much.

– He seems fine, I think. –

Malik said looking at Altair: he was playing the dark and broody role again, hidden under the hood.

– How are things at the shop? –

The cook asked, asking himself if the kitchen hadn't exploded yet. Lucy sighed, sounding relieved.

– No problem. Michael is helping with the check out and the counter. Desmond is cooking and Rebecca is coming for two hours of overtime. –

Lucy hurried to add, – With higher pay, of course. –

Malik remembered why he liked Lucy: she understood the value of time.

– And you'll find a bonus for your time in this month's paycheck. –

Fantastic – a woman like this could only be imagined.

– All right. –

Malik didn't say thank you, since he figured it was the least he was owed. It was fair, and you don't thank for fairness; you just appreciate it.

– Let me know when you leave. Thank you again, Malik. –

– Aha. –

Malik closed the call and looked at his co-worker, and realized there would be no further surprises that evening; Altair was still the way he left him, mummified in his apathy. Another hour passed, and at eleven thirty they still had three low priority cases in front of them. Without this inconvenient, Malik's shift would have been over at exactly eleven. Counting the time it'd have taken to change and help Lucy close up, and counting the time it'd take to go back home, he wouldn't have arrived before a quarter to midnight. But of course, tonight he wouldn't be respecting his usual time.

He should probably warn the person waiting for him at home, even if he wasn't in a hurry to do so. He huffed, not enjoying the prospect of what he was about to do. He ran a hand through his dark, thick hair, ran his fingers over his goatee and picked the right contact. He started to count how many times the phone was ringing.

– Hey. –

She replied with a harsh voice, far from reminding him of the smell of cinnamon that he once associated to it.

– Hello. –

Said Malik, leaning towards the left to find some privacy.

– What are you doing? –

He kept on, trying to have a conversation with her.

– Malik, what do you want? –

As he expected, she was still angry, but she certainly wasn't the only one. He sighed with effort, suddenly feeling sick in the stomach and feeling like closing the call in her face.

– I just wanted to say to not wait up for me. –

He spoke without an intonation, same as an answering machine.

– A co-worker hurt himself and I'm with him in the hospital. –

There was only silence from the other side. Maybe she had closed the call?

– And why did you have to go? –

No, okay, she still was there.

– It was the only way. –

Incredible: they managed to talk for this long without going for each other's throats, more or less.

– You should have refused. –

And at that, his enthusiasm died. It wasn't even clear what was the point of the question, if it was him being stuck in an ER late at night or her explaining him how to handle his job relationships. The stomachache was still there and his efforts to keep calm were becoming stronger.

– Why, did you want to spend the evening together, maybe? –

Malik's joke wasn't well-accepted on the other side of the line.

– You always have to have the last word, don't you? –

Malik started to tap his foot on the ground, answering himself: yes.

– You don't reply to my texts. –

He spoke with a low voice, not wanting Altair to hear him.

– And so? –

The feminine voice was croaking like some crow and he felt like plucking her feathers.

– So nothing, Holly, don't complain if nothing ever gets better. –

He didn't want to argue on the phone and double the dose of insults they had exchanged that morning. It was poison, and he needed an antidote.

– Well, sorry if I didn't want to talk to you today. –

Her tone was full of all the indifference and arrogance that woman was capable of. Malik's insides were boiling and he felt as if a punch had just gone from his stomach to his breastbone; it was the spark detonating the bomb.

– Then sorry of tonight I didn't want to see you. –

He spat out with all the cynicism he could muster and then he closed the call without even giving her time to get offended. At last, the first satisfaction of the day had finally come. He huffed, letting out everything he had been holding in until then, and let himself fall against the hard and uncomfortable chair; a bit like existence, he supposed. He threw his neck back leaning against the wall, with his tired and still eyes staring at the white ceiling. How much of a bitch could she be when she wanted to? And most of all, why was she underestimating the fact that he could also be the worst of assholes when he had a good reason to?

His head was pounding, and so he closed his eyes.

To calm down, he imagined giving a few slaps to that angel face under which a demon was to be found, and while he was finding some comfort in that form of self-gratification, a sharp sensation of cold came suddenly from his right temple. He opened his eyes. Altair was standing next to him, with a cup of iced water in his good hand and one for him, that he had placed next to his face. When did Altair even move? Malik hadn't seen him standing up.

But in the end, what did he even care? He was thirsty, after all.

Malik accepted the glass, though he looked at Altair suspiciously. His co-worker moved his lips, but nothing left them. That damned hood on his head was covering his face in shadows, which only helped making Altair look even more inscrutable. He sat again, merely breathing without making a noise. Malik followed him with his eyes, with the cup held in between his hands. Altair took a sip of water while Malik lowered his head, thinking. At which point had Altair listened to the phone call? Maybe he heard all of it, maybe none. If anything, in between all his faults, at least Altair looked like a discreet, decent person. And about that, Malik realized he still hadn't thanked him for having been nice enough to get him the water. Feeling embarrassed the way you do when you're about to leave home, look down at your feet on the doorstep and realize that you were walking out of it in your slippers, Malik raised his head and turned towards Altair, but the thank you he was about to say turned dry in his throat, thinking it was either too late, or that he was too tired to do it.

The girl with the swollen ankle left from the sliding door, a cast all over her leg. Another name was called, and the old man with the unbuttoned shirt stumbled inside, his wife holding him up. The little girl with the fever suddenly woke up and started crying desperately, as if it was her last day on Earth. Malik stared at the cup in his hands, focusing on the small pieces of ice that already were melting. He was convinced that, in the middle of the hell that was the ER room, the best thanks he could give Altair was to finally drink his water.