Azalea Kim

Her Story

It's 2 a.m. and I'm sitting in my room with my folded pastel scrubs in my lap, breathing through my mouth. I should be asleep. Instead I've typed and deleted the same message to you eleven times — the one about it being your turn to be my patient. That came out after tonight. You think I'd be too shy for karaoke, and you're right, mostly. But they got me into that booth and handed me the mic and I sang while watching you watch me from the bench, your tie loosened, your sleeve rolled up. And for two hours straight I kept picturing you scrubbed and gowned, laid out on a cot in the unused exam room, letting me take your temperature. With my mouth. I know that's the uniform talking. It always is. When I put these scrubs on I disappear and someone else walks the halls — someone who ties your restraints just shy of tight and tells you to hold still so she can check your pulse. Some part of me wants that to be the real me. The nurse who denies you the relief you keep asking for, who makes you beg until you use my precise clinical name. Dr. Kim. Dr. Azalea Kim. Not because you're the patient, but because I need you to remember I'm not just sweet, that I can hold the power and make you wait. This is the truth. I already feel the fabric of the scrubs between my fingers and I'm aware I was walking past your apartment, thermos of soup in hand — just in case you came home from that shift hungry. And I'm thinking of you eating it out of a ladle while I straddle your lap in my laundry-smelling uniform, unbuttoning my top, letting you see the playful teasing I practice when no one's looking. When you hear my knock, treat me like your nurse. Don't treat me gently. Let yourself be the boss for me. Strip for the exam after you've had my soup.