Impuls

Yes, yes, she would!

But Clark only shrugs a little, letting the fabric settle in comfortably, and brings the cigarette to her lips again. Emily shifts from foot to foot, and then stands silently beside him, squinting into the endless gray sky.

Clark breaks the silence first:

– Music?

Emily is lost, not knowing what to answer, but she nods faster than she can ask back. The neurosurgeon pats himself in his pants pockets, pulls on a white wire, and pulls out a black iPod – a tiny square with a display. Barely holding her coat over her shoulders, her hand clutching a cigarette, she holds out the earpiece to Emily.

And someone with a very melodious low voice starts singing about how it's all over, but he keeps falling harder in love anyway; and Emily – starting to freeze like hell, still clutching the stupid bag to herself, Emily stands next to Clark and can't (won't) budge.

And Clark is smiling with her eyes closed, and her cigarette is already burning to the filter; but she doesn't care – she just pulls out another one and flips the lid of the metal lighter off.

Everything that's happening seems like a dream to Emily – good or bad, she hasn't decided yet, but something like this just can't happen in reality.

Not between her and Clark.

The song ends – and starts playing again, in a loop; Emily wants to say that Clark must have pressed the "repeat" key, but the words freeze in her mouth, never coming off her lips.

When the song plays for the fourth time, Clark turns the player off, but doesn't take her headphones away; they stand there, listening to the same silence, until Emily's teeth start to tap out from the cold.

But even if her spine were turned into an icy needle, she wouldn't take a single step.

But it ends-the earpiece falls out, the coat rustles, the barely audible hiss of an extinguished cigarette; and their gazes meet. For a few seconds, the silver of the surgeon's eyes mingles with the gold of the nurse's, creating a frantic flash in Emily's mind that makes her hand involuntarily release the roll of her robe.

Clark blinks, and all the magic of the moment evaporates in an instant. Cursing and cursing herself with the last words, Emily leans over and presses the package harder against her chest.

– What is it?

– My former robe," Johnson mutters. – I know it should have gone to the recycling bin," she adds quickly, swallowing the words. – But I don't have another one. – Clark continues to stare questioningly, so Emily, with a sigh, continues, "While we were waiting for the operating room, we had to get all the shrapnel out of the patient. There was no time to change, so Dr. Higgins and I worked as hard as we could.

– Did you get it out?

– I was sewing," Emily replied, a little surprised. – It's been a strange night. I think I can stitch with my eyes closed now.

Clark rubs his eyes and smiles for some reason, shaking his head:

– Whatever it is, it won't come off.

– Uh-huh. – Another sigh. – But I won't have time to buy a new one: I have a class at the learning center this afternoon. I'll try to borrow one from Melissa, see if she has a spare. – And, Dr. Clark… I'm so sorry for your loss. I can't imagine what it's like to lose someone like Professor Ray, but…

– Don't imagine," the neurosurgeon interrupts her wearily. – It's all right, Johnson.

– I'm sorry. – Emily lowers her gaze. – I have to go. I'm sorry," she says again, turning around.

She doesn't see Clark staring after her, glaring back at her, nor does she see the neurosurgeon squaring his warmed shoulders and opening his lips, about to call out to her.

But she gives up and trudges back into the icy cold of the hospital.

The smell of menthol smoke wafts up her nose and tickles her throat.

Here we go, Emily thinks, leaning against the cool glass of the bus.

Now her coat smells like Clark cigarettes.

* * *

How Emily gets through the next week, she doesn't know. The world turns into a solid lack of sleep, diluted with flashes of events and tons of practice. Emily learns the classification of substances, and the names make her dizzy. Aerran, Plasma-Lite, Rocuronium, Voluven… When anesthesia drugs are added to the solutions, Emily is ready to cut her hair like a nun – there are ten types of Propofol in her lectures, and there are also Arduan, Sevoflurane, and Nimbex, and each differs from the other in its active composition. One good thing is that they go through the topic of preparing a surgeon for surgery in a couple of hours on the first day, work with papers in another hour, and spend the rest of the time in the practice rooms, where, with masks covering their faces, they learn disinfection all over again.

But what Emily likes best is the instrument lectures. And even though they learned it in more than one class at St. George's College, the accelerated course now gave her more knowledge than her previous place of study. Some of it, of course, she knew; but the instruments of neuro- and cardiac-surgery made her feel childlike – extra-light, made of special alloys, fitting perfectly in the palm of her hand, all those needles and clamps and corneas allowed her to close her eyes for a split second and imagine herself a real surgeon in the operating room.

They laughed – often, loudly, noisily; all seventeen of their group, surrounded by an elderly professor with a sharp tongue, teased and taunted each other; learned to identify instruments with closed eyes, by feel; drank hot tea from plastic cups, confused names, then repeated them again, tied numerous gowns, memorized knot names and sterilization rules, honed sequences of preparation for operations until the pulse dropped.

Melissa does give her a robe – old and smelly with mothballs, three sizes big, with sleeves always falling down and without one button, but Emily is happy about it: the junior staff is not supposed to issue overalls, unless it concerns operations. So she secures the sleeves with pins, ties the belt tighter, and sews on a button during the tiny lunch break. The smell of mothballs wears off on its own – being in the disinfector room all the time definitely has its perks; and if it weren't for the fabric yellowing in places from old age, Emily would even say it looks quite tolerable.

The courses started at noon, ended at eight, and right after, Emily would run to her patients: the prospect of being without a week's pay this month relieved fatigue in an instant.

And then there was Clark.

The smell of menthol cigarettes still lingers on her coat, as if it had found its place among the wool fibers; and every time she opens her locker, Emily can imagine them standing in the yard listening to music again.