Relief (nurse)

Tammy took a few deep breaths before she entered room 403.

“Good evening, Mr. Cartwright,” she said business-like, as polite as she could manage given the inevitable response.

“Go fuck yourself, you fat cow. I’m in pain, give me morphine.”

She was sure he wasn’t in as much pain as he should have been. According to his chart, he was probably faking. She hoped he wasn’t. If everything he said was wrong with him was correct, he had but days to live.

“Let’s see what we can do,” she said, and took the man’s arm. He tried to pull away, but she grabbed onto his wrist and held it in place. The man was weak from all this time in bed.

Taking his blood pressure and pulse, she counted the seconds on her watch, ignoring his expletives.

“Whore! Slut! Jezebel!”

She told him to hold still. Some of his IVs were coming loose, and she didn’t want to go through the fuss of sticking him again.

He swung his free arm across the bed and with his exoskeleton hand latched onto her breast. Tammy took a step back. He’d pulled out his tubes. She’d have to fix that before she left.

Taking a pair of tourniquets, she grabbed the man by the wrists and told him in no uncertain terms that he would hold still. She tied his arms to the railing, and he soon stopped resisting. He became quiet. As Tammy squirted some saline out of a needle, she did her best to ignore the man’s arousal, an incidental medical condition. She scowled.

He would get his morphine. She stabbed him in the vein, pretending she could hurt him. He would be so easy to kill.

“Goodbye, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, pretending.

#anger, #microfiction, #misogyny, #murder, #not-murder, #paraphilia, #professionals, #resentment, #sickness, #the-fetishists

Cheater

Through the dark, Gerard massaged the air around his wife’s body until he found her. She was motionless, almost unaware of him, until his hand landed gently against her skin. The sensation took her by surprise, and she twitched, but his other hand brushed against her hair and smoothed her down.

He could tell she was confused, but that would pass. One kiss later, she was relaxed. He’d just learned how to kiss. With a brief and warm exhale, life-affirming saliva blessed the back of her neck. She was silent. He touched her faintly, so that the dark was touching her and not his hands. As long as she was surprised and mostly unaware of his touch, her mind wouldn’t resist. Women are taught from a young age to deny pleasure, so he had found out.

“Where did you learn to be so sexy?” she asked in slow breaths. He didn’t want to answer, since he had an answer. Instead, he chose mock hubris.

He was born this way.

In school, he’d been ashamed to admit that he had studied for tests. He wanted to be the kind of smart that didn’t require effort. He did study, always after dark, usually alone. Sometimes with a friend. He was a good student.

His hands were magic now. His wife was in another world. She was cheating on him with that world. Someday, he swore, they would make love in the same room.

#cheating, #contradictions, #microfiction, #relationships, #the-fetishists

Hetero

She poured the last several sips of wine down her throat and stared at the ceiling. The gentleman seemed nice enough in his well-fitting suit, but he didn’t seem to like her. His smile was plastic and conciliatory.

Desiree hadn’t been out in a while, certainly not on what one would call a date. She was out of practice. When conversation lulled, she couldn’t move on to the next topic, and she didn’t know what to do with her eyes. The restaurant had these lime green chandeliers that made the lighting seem tropical, and she knew them well now. They were too bright.

“Sorry to waste your time,” he said. She assured him that she was fine, but he went on. “No, you see, I told Joan I was hetero, but she never listens. You know Joan. I’m just saying, you seem nice and all, but it’s not going anywhere.”

Desiree nodded a few times, though she didn’t understand. “Are you…?” she asked, but she wasn’t sure what the last word of her question should be. A woman? Trans? She left the ellipsis in place, and accented it with a roll of her hand.

“I mean look at us. We’re the same race. Same economic status. Basically. University-educated. Both wear glasses. Democrats. Do you watch Game of Thrones? No? That’s a start then, but it’s not enough. I’m hetero, and I can’t do anything about that. I need my opposite. You’re not even left-handed.”

He waved for the waiter to bring the bill, and suggested that they should split it down the middle. She agreed, and he shook his head.

“We really are on the same wavelength.”

He said it with such disdain that she felt it, too, the loathing that made her want only anything other than herself.

#heterosexuality, #microfiction, #paraphilia, #straight, #the-fetishists