Foreign Bodies - Light
Winter 1891.
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EXT. DISPENSARY - SERVICE DOOR - LATE AFTERNOON
Thomas steps outside. His hat and tie are gone. His jacket hangs open, and a fine layer of dust covers him from head to toe. Brownish stains mark his hands and wrists.
Nearby, a stretcher bearer crushes out his cigarette and heads back inside.
A little farther down, Elin sits on a low stone wall, smoking. Her apron is stained. Her sleeves are rolled to the elbows. Her hands are red and raw from disinfectants. He drops down beside her.
THOMAS: Got one for me?
She hands him her cigarette case. He takes one, lights it, and draws on it. He immediately starts coughing.
ELIN: Do you smoke?
THOMAS: No.
They both burst out laughing. He is still coughing. He looks down at the cigarette.
THOMAS: What's in it?
ELIN: Mullein. Thyme. A bit of mint.
He takes another drag. He doesn't cough.
THOMAS: It clears the chest.
ELIN: That's the idea.
They smoke in silence.
THOMAS: The light is beautiful tonight.
A pause.
ELIN: It's the cold.
A pause.
THOMAS: On days like this, everything seems sharper.
The hint of a smile crosses her face.
ELIN: Yes.
A pause.
THOMAS: And you?
ELIN: All right.
A pause.
ELIN: I've seen worse. Doesn't help, though.
She finishes her cigarette.
ELIN: Many left?
THOMAS: Yes. I'm heading back.
She looks at him.
ELIN: Have you eaten?
He doesn't answer.
ELIN: Go to the kitchen. Eat something.
He smiles at her. She gets to her feet.
ELIN: If there's any cake left, have two slices.
She heads back inside. He lingers, finishing his cigarette.
