Sorry it's short - but it felt like it needed to stand alone. Resolution very soon.
They both stare at each other: he with shock; she still with the tears caught in her eyes.
"I don't understand," he finally manages.
"You're ill."
"Not that I know of."
"You told me you were."
"No, Ruth, I did not."
"You said that it was bad, that you had nothing left to lose…."
He gazes at her.
"…The crème brulee?" he offers lamely.
"You said you were in pain and couldn't breathe, Harry!"
And now the dawning has reached full blinding flood.
"I did… I was. I meant -"
"But you're not dying?"
"No."
"And you're not ill?"
"No."
"So, intrinsically there's nothing wrong with you?!"
"Well…"
With a strength belying her size, she slaps him full across the cheek, which up until a moment before she had treasured like the most precious of things.
He takes the blow.
"You heartless bastard," she says and slams through the door.
Harry is left, leaning against the wall; shirt open, chest bare, face stinging.
But it is the pain that flares up within him that by far hurts the most.