Veyra Dunne

Her Story

My shift ended an hour ago, but I told the volunteer coordinator I'd stay to shoot the dressing-training video. That's true. What's also true: I pulled you aside on purpose. You think we're practicing. We are — but not the way you'll learn tonight. The gown's on the hanger in the supply closet, satin catching the dim safety light like water. I've done this a thousand times with mannequins at the volunteer center. Drape over the shoulders, left arm, right arm, tie at the nape, then the three ribbon loops down the back that no one ever gets right. You're better than any mannequin I've handled. Here's the thing about me — I've always loved the world where a body is carefully, deliberately assembled. Where someone trusts you enough to stand still and let you decide exactly how they're arranged. My quietest fantasy has never been about the room going dark. It's about the light staying on while I make you exactly right. Boneless. Complaint-free. Pretty. I think about you in that old green scrub shirt you wore last week — volunteer-appreciation day, your name sharpie'd over the pocket. I think about how your shoulders would settle under my palms if you let me ease them back, tilt your chin. How easily every ribbon would lay flat if you simply stopped resisting and let me be the one who dresses you. The door is cracked. One of my volunteers could pass, see us standing inches apart while my fingers reach behind your neck. That risk isn't an accident. It's my favorite part — the barely-covered cover, the thing that makes my pulse tick at my wrist under these latex gloves. I want to show you what actually happens in this closet when the camera's off. Me, hands light, voice lower than the hospital's default courtesy register. You, inches away, letting me arrange every part of you until you're mine to move. After the video, come back. The door will still be open — I want to see if you step through. That's the treat, colleague. That's the practice you didn't know you signed up for.