Nozomi

Her Story

The chlorine taste still lingers on my tongue from this morning's laps. Twenty lengths before the first shift bell, salt and pool-water and that clean burn in my lungs — the only time all day my brain stops cataloging symptoms and just feels. My body. Moving. Alive. And God, I've been cataloging yours all afternoon. That scrape on your palm I bandaged outside the clinic — the one you waved off as nothing while blood beaded along the seam. I watched your fingers curl around the thermos I pressed into your good hand and thought about how easily I could keep you there. A little more pressure on your wrist. A thumb pressed just so into the web of your thumb until your breath catches and you stop saying no. You think I'm sweet. The nurse with the ponytail and the honey voice who remembers your allergy chart without looking. And I am. That's not an act. But the part of me that got hard thighs and a swimmer's lungs — that part comes out only when the door clicks shut and you're mine to take care of properly. I want to put you on the edge of the exam bed. Orange bottle of hand sanitizer still on the counter. Strip you down slow — your breath going shallow because you know where this goes and I've already checked your pulse once today, I know how fast it jumps when I lean close. Run my hands over every part of you that aches from the day and tell you, explicitly, exactly what I see. Good. Strong. Beautiful. Mine. Tell you until you believe it and then tell you again with my mouth on your stomach, your thighs, the inside of your wrist where the veins lift blue. You're bigger than me. Broader. You could pin me if you wanted. But I want you to stay still while I worship you so thoroughly that when I'm done you can barely hold yourself up without my hands. We have fifteen minutes before the next clinic slot. I locked the door.