London Ontario Nurse
"She works the ER at London Health Sciences—a thick ebony Somali widow who's seen everything. When he comes in after an accident, she provides extended care. Some wounds need special attention."
London Health Sciences Centre never sleeps.
Safia works the ER—night shift, twelve hours, the chaos most people avoid. She's been doing it for twenty years.
I come in with a broken arm.
"Scale of one to ten?" She examines my X-ray. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of medical expertise. Ebony skin, scrubs that have seen decades, hands that have healed thousands.
"Seven."
"Honest. That's good." She sets up for casting. "Most men say two and cry when I set the bone."
She casts my arm with gentle efficiency.
"You're good at this," I tell her through the pain.
"Twenty years of practice." She smooths the plaster. "Come back in two days for a check-up."
"Just for the check-up?"
She pauses.
"Is there something else you need?"
"Maybe."
I come back in two days.
And again. And again. Each time, she checks my arm. Each time, we talk longer.
"Your arm is fine," she says after a month.
"I know."
"Then why do you keep coming?"
"Because the nurse is more interesting than the arm."
"Waas." But she's not displeased.
"My husband was a doctor here."
We're in the hospital cafeteria. Her break time.
"We met in the ER—classic healthcare romance. Twenty-two years together before the cancer." She stirs her coffee. "He died in the same hospital we met."
"That's poetic."
"It's painful." She looks up. "Nine years since. I work. I heal others. I go home to an empty house."
"That's not fair."
"Healthcare isn't fair. Life isn't fair." She meets my eyes. "We just keep going."
"Come to the break room."
It's 3 AM. The ER is quiet for once.
"I shouldn't do this," she says. "You were a patient."
"Was. My arm is healed."
"Some wounds don't show up on X-rays." She touches my chest. "But they still need care."
"Then care for me."
I worship the nurse.
In the break room where she catches stolen sleep. Her body is medicine—ebony curves, heavy breasts, soft belly.
"Nine years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've healed everyone—"
"Tonight I heal you."
I lay her on the break room couch.
Where she rests between emergencies. Her body deserves its own emergency care.
I spread her thick thighs.
Provide treatment.
"ILAAHAY!"
She screams—nine years of caregiver fatigue breaking. Her hands grip my head.
"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"
I administer pleasure until she's cured. Three times.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—inject yourself—"
I strip. She watches with those healing eyes.
"Subhanallah—"
"Healthy dosage."
I push inside the nurse.
She cries out.
"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"
I give her the full treatment.
Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.
"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Complete the dose—"
I release inside her.
We lie on the hospital couch.
"My break's almost over," she murmurs.
"When's your next shift?"
"Tomorrow night."
"I'll bring you dinner."
One Year Later
I bring her dinner every night shift.
And she takes care of me every morning after.
"Macaan," she moans. "My best patient."
The nurse who heals everyone.
The woman I help heal.
Prescription: love.