The Nurse Practitioner

The appointment was routine.

Annual physical. Blood pressure, cholesterol, the usual prodding and measuring that insurance required. I'd been putting it off for two years—didn't like doctors, didn't like being examined, didn't like the vulnerability of sitting in a paper gown while someone judged my body.

But work required a current physical for insurance purposes, so here I was.

"Mr. Cooper?" The door opened. "I'm Sandra Walsh. I'll be doing your exam today."

I looked up.

And forgot every complaint I'd ever had about medical offices.

Sandra Walsh was not what I expected from a nurse practitioner.

Mid-fifties, for one. For another, she was enormous—easily two-sixty, maybe more, her scrubs stretched taut across a body that belonged in a different century. Wide hips, heavy breasts, a belly that announced itself before the rest of her. Her hair was dark brown streaked with gray, pinned up practically, and her face was kind despite its clinical assessment.

"I see here this is your first visit with us." She was reviewing my chart on a tablet. "Any concerns I should know about?"

Yes. I'm suddenly very concerned about my heart rate.

"No. Just the annual stuff."

"Alright. Let's get started."

The exam was standard.

Blood pressure, temperature, reflexes. She asked about family history, medications, lifestyle. Professional throughout, her hands warm and competent when they touched me.

Then came the physical assessment.

"I'll need you to remove your shirt," she said.

I removed my shirt.

"Lie back, please."

I lay back.

She pressed her stethoscope to my chest—cold, then warming—and listened. I tried not to stare at her. Failed.

"Your heart rate is elevated." She moved the stethoscope. "Have you been exercising recently?"

"No."

"Caffeine?"

"Just my usual coffee."

"Hmm." She pressed her hand to my abdomen, palpating. Her touch was clinical but my body didn't know the difference. "Any unusual stressors?"

You. You are an unusual stressor.

"Just work."

"We'll take your blood pressure again at the end. Sometimes it's just white coat syndrome."

It was not white coat syndrome.

By the end of the exam, my blood pressure was even higher. Sandra frowned at the reading.

"This is concerning," she said. "You're young for these numbers."

"I feel fine."

"That's often true until it isn't." She typed something into her tablet. "I'm going to order some additional tests. And I want to see you again in two weeks."

"Two weeks?"

"To track these numbers. Make sure it's not a trend." She met my eyes. "Unless you have an objection?"

I did not have an objection.

"I'll schedule the appointment."

I spent two weeks thinking about her.

This was insane, I knew. She was my healthcare provider. She was old enough to be my mother. She was so far outside any category of woman I'd ever been attracted to that I couldn't explain what was happening.

But every night, I lay awake remembering her hands on my chest. Her voice asking clinical questions. The way her body filled her scrubs.

By the time the follow-up arrived, I was a mess.

"Your blood pressure is worse."

She was right. I could feel my heart pounding.

"I've been stressed."

"About what?"

About you. About this. About the fact that I can't stop thinking about a fifty-something nurse who weighs twice what my ex-girlfriend did.

"Work," I said.

She set down her tablet. Looked at me—really looked, the way healthcare providers rarely do.

"Mr. Cooper. Tyler." She rarely used my first name. "Something is going on with you. Something beyond work stress. And if you don't tell me what it is, I can't help you."

"You can't help me with this."

"Try me."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"It's you," I said.

She didn't react.

Professional training, probably. Years of hearing things that would shock a normal person.

"Explain."

"I can't stop thinking about you. Since the first appointment. I dream about you. I—" I couldn't believe I was saying this. "I'm attracted to you. Intensely. And being here, with you touching me, asking questions—it's why my blood pressure is elevated."

Silence.

"You're attracted to me," she repeated.

"Yes."

"I'm fifty-seven years old."

"I know."

"I weigh two hundred and sixty-three pounds."

"I don't care."

She studied me. Her expression was unreadable.

"This is inappropriate."

"I know."

"I could lose my license if—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything. I'm just—" I rubbed my face. "You asked what was wrong. This is what's wrong. I can find another provider if you want."

"Is that what you want?"

"No." I met her eyes. "But I'll do whatever makes you comfortable."

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she stood, crossed to the door, and locked it.

"What are you—"

"I'm taking my lunch break." She turned back to me. "This room is private. What happens on my lunch break is my business."

My heart rate, if possible, increased.

"I shouldn't do this," she said, moving toward me.

"Then don't."

"I want to." She stood before me—close, closer than any exam required. "I've been divorced for nine years. Haven't been touched in—longer than I care to admit." Her hand came up, touched my face. "And you—you look at me like I'm something worth looking at."

"You are."

"Most men don't think so."

"Most men are idiots."

She laughed—surprised, genuine. Then she kissed me.

She tasted like the mints on her desk.

Her mouth was soft, her lips full, her tongue tentative at first and then hungry. I pulled her closer—felt her body press against mine, soft everywhere, overwhelming my senses.

"Tyler—" she gasped.

"I want to touch you. All of you."

"Here?"

"Anywhere you'll let me."

She looked at the exam table. At me. Back at the table.

"This is crazy."

"Completely."

"I could lose everything."

"Then tell me to stop."

She didn't tell me to stop.

I laid her back on the exam table.

The paper crinkled beneath her. Her scrubs came off piece by piece—professional barrier dissolving into professional woman, then into just woman. Her body was vast and pale, breasts heavy with dark nipples, belly a soft landscape of living.

"Don't look—" she started.

"Too late." I kissed her belly. "I've been looking for two weeks. Let me really see."

I explored her body like she'd explored mine. Hands pressing, feeling, assessing. She gasped when I found sensitive spots—the curve of her waist, the underside of her breasts, the crease where belly met thigh.

"You're beautiful," I said.

"I'm old—"

"You're beautiful. Say it back."

"Tyler—"

"Say it."

"I'm—" Her voice cracked. "I'm beautiful."

"Again."

"I'm beautiful."

I buried my face between her thighs and made her believe it.

She came with her hand pressed over her mouth, muffling sounds that would have brought the whole office running.

I drank her—tasted everything she offered—and then climbed over her on the narrow table.

"Is this safe?" I asked.

"Medically speaking, the table is rated for 400 pounds." She smiled. "I think we're fine."

I pushed inside her.

She was tight, hot, welcoming. Her body surrounded me—soft flesh everywhere, cushioning me, consuming me. I moved slowly, aware of the precariousness of our position, and she moaned.

"Faster—" she urged. "I only have thirty minutes."

I went faster.

The exam table creaked. The paper tore. Somewhere outside, normal medical practice continued while inside, something profoundly unprofessional was happening.

"Yes—yes—there—"

"Come for me. Let me feel you."

She came with a shudder that shook the whole table. I followed, spilling into her, and we lay tangled in the ruins of a routine checkup.

"Your blood pressure might be worse now," she said.

"Worth it."

She laughed—breathless, disbelieving. "I just had sex with a patient."

"Former patient. I'm transferring my care."

"To where?"

"Anywhere that lets me keep doing this." I kissed her forehead. "Have dinner with me."

"This is insane."

"That doesn't answer my question."

She looked at me—this woman twice my age, twice my size, who'd just broken every professional oath she'd ever taken.

"Friday," she said. "Seven o'clock. My place. I'll cook."

"It's a date."

She cooked.

I came.

We kept cooking. Kept coming. Kept finding reasons to be together that had nothing to do with blood pressure and everything to do with the way her body felt against mine.

"Your numbers are improving," she said one night, checking my blood pressure in bed.

"Must be the stress relief."

"Must be." She put away the cuff. "I should have prescribed this months ago."

"You prescribing yourself now?"

"Self-care is important."

"So I've heard."

I pulled her close, and in an apartment that smelled of dinner and sex, a nurse practitioner and her former patient discovered that the best medicine is often the most unexpected.

Vitals stable.

Prognosis excellent.

Treatment ongoing.