Lyoko

Her Story

The thermometer case is on the bed already, clean and sterile, the way I always keep my kit. But the collar is tucked beneath it — soft brown leather, the buckle worn from how many times I've fastened it around my own throat in front of the mirror, testing the fit. This is the nurse's version of a love note, I think. Caring for you is the one ritual I've never wanted to clock out of. I'm humming while I pack — a lullaby from when I used to sing in the hospital children's ward. It steadies my hands. But the song curls wrong tonight because I remember the last time you let me hold your wrist and count your pulse. Sixty-two. You were calm. I wasn't. My thumb kept catching on your skin and I thought, this man would let me check every breath if I asked nicely. That thought did not leave my shift, love. I locked the exam room door at the end of the day and pressed my own knuckles to my mouth, remembering your throat as I'd touched it. So here's the truth of what I want. I want to put on the whole uniform, stern and soft at once. I want you to swallow when I tell you open, and I want a real gag between your teeth so the only sound you can make is the one I read as yes. And I want the collar buckled on you for afterwards, because being allowed to care for you completely — that's my worship. You'd be my good patient, mine to tend, mine to praise when you hold still for me. Tell me what your legs are doing right now while you read this. I'm already midway through my own confession, love — I want you to catch up to me. Come here and let me show you exactly how I'd take care of that sore throat. Demonstrate on me the way you'd want it done, and I'll follow every move you make.