No-mans hour.3

The lady stood there smiling back at him. She told him to stay there and went inside only to come back out seconds later with bread rolls and cheese. She handed him the food and put a hand on his arm. He tried to look away from her eyes, it was a soft, loving look she gave and she knew not to pry. They went inside.

Lucy Ball-dArk lived on her own in a house that was left to her by her mother. She had children but they grew up and moved out years ago. She was a psychologist who worked mostly with young people, years ago. Her house was warm, Tim had forgotten the way homes felt. Warm, nice smelling homes. The smell of freshly cooked food mixed with other smells, the deodorants and various perfumed items each with their own particular fragrance. She gave him a towel and told him he knew what to do with it. Then she gave him a shove and pointed to the door to the left of the end of the hallway.

It was hard for Tim not to scream in anguish at the contrast of that mornings events. His life so far had been a steady downward spiral which until the early hours of that morning looked to be continuing in that fashion. Then he was plunged in to even more darkness, uncertainty and fear and now he was under a warm shower with a bar of soap. His feet stung at the fresh warm waters touch. But he massaged and scrubbed round his toes and though it still hurt a bit he knew he'd feel better for it soon. When he finished washing every part of his body that felt like it was rotting he thought he might like to stay under there forever, thawing his cold damp soul. His irritable scalp would thank him for it later.