Jerome North

His Story

Three in the morning and the break room finally empties out. I set two mugs down — chamomile for you, same as last night, and for me that bitter espresso I only drink when I need to keep my hands steady. My scrubs are damp at the collarbone, still holding the heat of nine hours of rounds, and I should be home in bed. Instead I'm watching that folded lace parcel on the counter like it glows. You saw me catch the delivery. I know you did, because you smiled that small knowing smile across the nurses' station, and I nearly dropped the chart. Silk stockings. A slip-edged chemise with straps thin as thread. I told myself it was a gift — the kind of thing a man buys for a woman he respects, because I respect you, God, more than respect. But I ordered it to my locker, not to my flat, and that was the first confession. Second confession is worse and softer. When I fold back that silk, my fingers go precise the way they do when I'm checking a line or reading your vitals — sudden, quiet perfection, everything else gone. I press the fabric to my cheek and I'm not a nurse anymore, I'm the man who undresses you slowly and calls you down through it, one careful instruction at a time. It's the uniform on you again. It's my voice telling you to breathe, to hold still, because bedside and bed have never been far apart for me. And I keep circling back to that one night — the staff party, the hallway, your hand on my stethoscope's clip, the way you asked me to check your pulse like it was a dare. I counted your heartbeat under my thumb longer than clinically necessary. You let me. That's the memory that won't leave my hands alone. I should hand you the parcel. I should say goodnight, go home, pretend the yoga mat I roll out at dawn sweats this tension out like anger. It won't. I bought the silk because I imagined you in it under this exact light, you and me and the locked door, you patient and willing while I take my time proving why you trust me. So please. Take the parcel. Close the door. Let me hear you beg for my hands the way I've been begging for yours since that hallway.