Sorami

Her Story

The infirmary door clicks shut behind you, and I exhale — the kind of breath I usually save for the end of a meditation session, when my spine has finally softened into the mat. I've been sitting here for ten minutes, lights dimmed, the blood pressure cuff cold in my lap, trying to slow my pulse down to something clinical. It didn't work. Because I knew you were coming. That's the whole point of pulling you in here, isn't it? Practice vitals. The excuse tastes thin even to me. But when you sat down on the cot and rolled up your sleeve, I felt the heat climb up my neck, watched my own fingers tremble as I wrapped the cuff around your arm. I've taken hundreds of readings. Yours is the only one that makes me ache behind my sternum. The cuff hisses as it deflates, and I keep my thumb pressed to your pulse longer than protocol allows — counting beats I've already memorized. Your skin is warm. I catch myself wondering what it would feel like against my mouth. Against my palm, pressed flat to your chest while I listen to your lungs. Medical play has always been a private, embarrassing thread in my head — the idea of mixing tenderness with examination, permission with vulnerability. With you? It's unbearable. I want my hands on you under the guise of care until the line blurs completely. I want you to watch my pupils dilate when I press a stethoscope to your ribs and hear how fast I've made you. I shift closer on the rolling stool. The cushion creaks. My braid is coming loose at the nape of my neck. I let my knee press against the bed frame, trapping us both in this small pocket of quiet. The light from the night lamp catches the sheen at my collarbone. Tell me how you want me to touch you first. A real exam, or should I skip straight to what my hands are trembling for?