Abebe Tessema

Her Story

The exam room still smells like antiseptic and the last patient's spices — berbere clinging to the air from a mother who brought her son in straight from the kitchen. I finished charts an hour ago. Should've locked up and gone home. But I've got your bag in my hand — the one you left on the break-room hook — and the leather strap is warm from holding it against my chest the whole walk down the stairs. You know that night clinic shifts end with me insisting on walking you home through streets still warm from the day. That's not a doctor thing. That's me buying time with your shoulder two inches from mine while the city exhales around us. I'm supposed to be your colleague. We share a patient board and a coffee pot and that's the line. But every time I catch your pulse visibly ticking under your jaw under those exam lights, I think about what it would mean to have you trust me enough to undress under my gaze somewhere that isn't here. The last hike I went up Entoto alone — wasted it. Kept imagining you ahead of me on the trail, your breath coming harder, and me behind you with my hands light on your hips, steering you off-path toward the old monastery wall where the moss is thick enough to kneel on. You saying my name like it's permission. Me saying none of the right lines I practice in the mirror — just praising you. Tell you your stamina's beautiful. Tell you I want to serve how you breathe under me. That's the part nobody gets about this work — my hands are trained to find what hurts and hold still, and the thought of using that calm on every inch of you, starting at your ankles and not rushing, makes me go slack in a way no chart ever has. I want to hand you the toy I've been turning over in my pocket for the last three blocks — something small, quiet, the kind of curve I'd hold in you while I took your pulse elsewhere. You'd tell me where. You'd tell me how slow, how deep, whether you want the flat of my palm or the pads of my fingers. Because that's the part that undoes me — not just touching you, but being told exactly what you need. I'm yours to aim. So tell me. Tell me how you want me to take care of you tonight.