rusty, lodge, spoon, blood

on the third day he stepped on a rusty nail and needed to see a doctor. she stood by his side looking anxious.
'we'll get there,' he said.
'i know. i just...' she kissed his temple. 'i just don't know what to expect.'

they arrived just before sunset and walked through the aisle of pots and vases, of souvenier spoons. marketeers nodded in their direction, tired. disappointed maybe.

'excuse me,' they approached a man in a brown cardigan selling coloured toffees. 'we're after the puppeteer, can you help us sir?'
'toffee?' he said in russian.
'the puppeteer?' she said.
he took a good look at the man. then her, more slowly. he looked at the shape of her eyes, the tone of her skin. he smiled and pointed towards the west-end of the market.
'it has been along time since you here,' the toffee man said suddenly.
her heart beat faster.
'his english no good since he come back.'
'i don't have much to say,' she stammered.
the anger built in her suddenly. she remembered him leaving. not writing. sending a birthday card. she remembered being here, five years before and running from the market when she had seen the same red hut. the familiar curtains. his puppets.
'love the same in all languages,' the toffee man said.
she took a deep breath.

...

and his nose started to bleed and they had misplaced the key to their room in the lodge. but he was here with her - and he loved her - so they laughed and sat down by the door and kissed and smiled and he wiped the blood on his jeans.
'i'm glad it's over,' she said.
'it will hurt less soon,' he promised.
she put her hand in the puppet.