Night Shift
"Three weeks in the hospital. His night nurse has a bedside manner that goes far beyond medical. He recovers remarkably fast—then fakes symptoms to stay longer. She knows. She doesn't mind."
The accident left me with a shattered leg and three weeks in the hospital.
Days were endless—tests, physical therapy, daytime TV that made me wish the car had finished the job.
Nights were different.
Nights belonged to Nurse Patricia.
She appeared at 11 PM on my first night.
Two hundred and eighty pounds in scrubs that couldn't contain her. Fifty-six years old, face kind, hands surprisingly gentle as she checked my vitals.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Pain."
"I can give you something for that." She adjusted my IV. "But there are other remedies."
"Like what?"
"Like distraction." She sat on the edge of my bed. "Tell me about yourself."
We talked until 4 AM.
My job. My failed marriage. The accident—a drunk driver who walked away fine while I spent six hours in surgery.
"You need healing," Patricia said. "Not just the leg."
"Can you prescribe that?"
"No." Her hand found mine. "But I can provide it."
The next night, she came at midnight.
"Private room," she observed. "Good insurance."
"Good company."
"Is that what this is?" She was checking my monitors, but her eyes stayed on me. "Company?"
"It's whatever you want it to be."
She looked at me for a long moment. Then she closed the door.
"I shouldn't do this."
She was standing at the foot of my bed. Hands on her hips. Deciding.
"Then don't."
"I want to." She started unbuttoning her scrubs. "I've wanted to since you looked at me like I was beautiful."
"You are beautiful."
"I'm a fat old nurse." The scrubs fell. "But you look at me like I'm something else."
"Because you are." I reached for her. "Come here."
She was careful with my injuries.
Climbed onto the bed beside me, worked around the cast, found angles that wouldn't hurt. Her mouth found mine, then my neck, then lower.
"I shouldn't," she kept saying. "But I need—"
"I know what you need."
I guided her up. Onto my face. Her weight settling, her heat surrounding.
"Your leg—"
"Is fine." I licked. "Now shut up and let me thank you for the excellent care."
She came quietly.
Hospital rules—other patients, other nurses, the ever-present risk of discovery. But her body shook, her thighs clenched, and the sounds she suppressed made it even hotter.
"God—" She was gasping. "You're supposed to be recovering—"
"This is the best medicine I've ever had."
"It's not standard treatment—"
"Should be." I pulled her down. Kissed her. "Come back tomorrow night."
She came back every night.
Sometimes just to talk. Sometimes to check vitals that didn't need checking. Sometimes to climb into my bed and let me worship her body until dawn.
"You're recovering too fast," she said after week two. "Doctor wants to discharge you."
"What if I have complications?"
"You don't."
"What if I develop some?"
She looked at me. Understood.
"I could... fail to notice improvement."
I stayed an extra week.
The insurance company was suspicious. The doctor was confused. Patricia documented symptoms that didn't exist and administered treatments that weren't in any medical textbook.
"This can't last forever," she said on my last night.
"I know."
"But." She straddled me—carefully, always careful of my healing leg. "That doesn't mean it has to end."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting you need outpatient care." She sank onto me. "Regular visits. From your favorite nurse."
Three months later
The leg healed perfectly.
I see Patricia three times a week—Tuesday and Thursday nights at her apartment, Saturday mornings when her shift ends.
"How's the patient?" she asks, opening the door.
"In need of urgent care."
"I'd better examine you thoroughly."
She examines me thoroughly.
I've never been healthier.
"Move in with me," she says one night.
We're tangled in her sheets. Both exhausted. Both satisfied.
"As what?"
"As whatever you want." She kisses my shoulder. "Boyfriend. Partner. Permanent patient requiring constant supervision."
"Will there be sponge baths?"
"Daily."
"Temperature checks?"
"Hourly."
"Extensive physical examinations?"
"As often as necessary." She smiles. "So. What do you say?"
I moved in that weekend.
Best recovery I ever made.