“You wouldnaunderstan – though yuhshould.” He replies, not stressing anything: the words wafted on a swift sharp drunken sigh.

He stares ahead with head lowered, and then starts slowly and deliberately twisting and stretching his head as if it was a steering wheel in the hand of a drunk, soaked with determination to get himself aligned on the road ahead. “Listen” he says looking up at Nuchi “I lost my patch - give us yours, … please?”

Nuchi picks his phone out of his jacket pocket, and hands it over, where it is held in both of the newcomer’s hands and studied intently: the distance between forehead and screen undulating with the rolling road.

“A Nuchi – you’ve Eve’s number here?”

“Eve? Oh my God, Eve!” Vanuchi laughs, but the ripples of it are just out of time somehow; and then he just sits there stiff and frozen, the fag burning away in his hand.

The newcomer turns his gaunt, silver lined face away from me towards Nuchi, so all I see is the back of his pissed up head rolling and nodding with the road.

„You think it is wise in, in your condition?“ says Nuchi a little more quietly.