Rosie and Her Patient

Rosie and Her Patient

     My name is Rosie and I am a nurse practitioner at the a doctor’s suite in Albuquerque. It is here that I meet Peter.
      I walk in with eyes the color of black tourmaline crystal. I find my patient sitting on the bed awaiting my entry. My patient says, “I feel the zing of an electric charge pulsing through my leg.” He puts himself in my hands. I am a nurse of softness.
     I instruct him to undress to his briefs and put a ring of plastic skirt around his waist. I swish out of the room. Within moments I open the door and approach him with a flirty smile.
     I ask him where the sparks fly. The naughty glint in his eyes tells me that I am the source of his current. I stand huddled close to him. I run my fingernail up and down his leg. All the while I beam feminine energy with my coquettish grin.
     With swift daring I plunge my hand under his skirt to touch his hip. With a giggle I ask if he feels it there. He says, “Oh yea. It feels like an electric shock sensation. I may have a pinched nerve.”
     “Or you may just be overly sensitive to touch.” I glance down at the ripple effect in his plastic skirt. The look on his face is priceless. God I love my job on days like these.
     “When did you first notice it?”
     “While watching Fifty Shades of Grey.”
     “Well, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. Just think of it as an extra shot of espresso in your latte.”
     I have him dress and lie on the table. I lift his shirt to expose him while speaking with flowery flow. My fingers do the walking. I probe the lower regions of his tender abs. He exhales as I withdraw my fingers.
     “Now you have me giggling. Hey can I give you something? Here I’ve written my phone number. For a good time call Rosie. But please don’t spread it around. I don’t want a reputation. You look kinda dazed. But I see you’re putting my invitation in your wallet.”
     He looks up at me and asks, “What led you to become a nurse?”
     I say, “Well you know, every little girl dreams of being a nurse. Most of them grow out of it. I guess
I followed my childhood dream. You are inquisitive Mr. Tadlock.”
     Peter says, “Rosie, what do you do at home?”
     I reply, “You mean away from here? I read a book till I’m drowsy. Then I brush my teeth.”  
     He says, “Rosie you sound like you spend a lot of time in your head. I can relate to that. I was considered way too cerebral by the girls in college. I didn’t start dating till I was in my late twenties. In high school I was voted most likely to be a monk.”
     I lean back with my mouth hanging open. I say, “I never would have guessed.”
     Peter pivots grasping my hand. He says, “You see you can’t judge a book by its cover.”
      I feel the impinging tingles from his touch. He says, “Rosie we should discuss Sartre one evening over tea.”
     I think that sounds innocent enough. I say, “Sartre is right up my alley.”
     I gaze back at him as I pace away turning a corner and vanishing into the hive.
     Later I am taking blood pressure, checking men for hernias, and doing prostrate exams. It feels like I am hallucinating in some surreal Kafka story which transpires here and now.
     However, I have made a little white lie. I know nothing of Sartre. If we ever do rendezvous for tea I’ll be found out.  Perhaps I am reading too much into his gesture; after all tea and literary chat isn’t necessarily romance. I prepare myself for the let down of unrequited affection.
     I arrive at my domicile and fall into my bed. I reach over pressing the button on my answering machine hoping for human warmth; a kind voice from someone who cares. The first message is a political survey. I erase it immediately. Then comes a voice I don’t recognize at first.  However, he introduces himself as Peter my patient. He says he found my number on a scrap of paper I’d given him. I get goose bumps but try to keep it in perspective. He might only see me as a friend. However, being his friend is an inviting prospect.
     I make the leap and call him. My heart is pounding a mile a minute. I stutter, “Peter what a pleasant surprise.”    
     He sighs. “Rosie, I hope I’m not intruding. However, I’d like to have tea with you.”
     I gasp, “Really. Well of course. I’d love to. It’s so nice of you to ask. When would you like to meet?”
     He goes on, “Meet me at my place at seven tomorrow evening. Be sure to brush up on your Sartre.”
     I laugh, exhaling, “Of course Sartre.” He gives me his address.
     He says, “See you tomorrow, Rosie.” He hangs up.
     I don’t slumber till after midnight. I wake at six to the firing of cannons in Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture on my radio alarm.  I clumsily make my way to the shower. The jets of cold water strike me at different angles stimulating me with exhilarating energy.
     The day goes by like a flow of clouds in a high,
bright, and clear sky. I depart the antiseptic realm and work my way through the traffic to his place in the mountains. I climb the stairs ascending into his lair. I ring the pendulous bell which hangs by his door awaiting what the evening holds. The door opens and he stands there, wearing jeans and an oversize t-shirt.
     He smiles, and says, “Hey Rosie. Make yourself at home.”
     I amble in and stand over his kitchen table. He walks up to me, pulls out a chair, and says, “Please sit down.” I sit as he pushes the chair in. He sits across from me and says, “You were punctual. You got here just a few minutes before we had arranged.” He smiles and says, “So what do you think of Sartre?”    
     I chuckle and grip the table edge. I respond, “To be quite honest with you I’ve never read Sartre.”    
     Peter throws back his head laughing and says, “So you were trying to impress me?”
     I grin back, “Yea, but I guess I failed.”
     Peter strokes his hair, “Forsooth. Forsooth.” I know I’ve blown it by now.
     He continues, “Noone to worry. I really liked your nurse’s hat. That’s why I asked you over.”    
     I squint, “Really? It was my hat?”
     I look at the plush couch across in the living room. I yearn to hold him in my arms sitting there.  
     Peter gets up and pours some green tea. He sets a cup down in front of me and my eyes gaze down for a moment. He sits down and takes a sip. I am really stumbling over my words. I am breathing rapidly.
     “Rosie when was the last time you had a man friend?”
     “Oh it’s been quite a while. I mean well.”    
     He interjects, “Since high school?”
     I chuckle, “Well there is my brother. He and I are good friends.”      
     Peter groans, “Rosie your brother isn’t what I’m talking about.”    
     I laugh nervously, “Oh you mean a man friend!”
     Peter replies, “Yes Rosie. That’s what I mean.”
     I laugh again sputtering, “I understand now.”    
     Peter responds, “I thought you’d catch on. You’re pretty bright.”
     Peter gazes into my eyes. He asks, “Would you like to retire to the couch?”
     I nod affirmatively.  We sit next to each other. I cannot see a TV. I feel giddy.  He reaches out and holds my chin with his fingertips. He kisses me in a priestly sacrament. His kiss strangely reminds me of Halvah, with its sweet sensation. He stands and motions with his finger summoning me with the words, “Come hither.”
     He has a wry smile as he grasps my hand leading me to the bedroom. I have never been seduced by my patient before. Suddenly my world has transformed from black and white to Koda-chrome.  My senses rejoice.
     We lay in the dark under a handmade quilt he tells me his grandmother made for him. I wonder what his grandmother would think of this. I can feel Peter’s body heat next to me. He is sound asleep with his head nestled against my shoulder. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest on mine. I kiss him lightly on the forehead and feel the arms of Morpheus embrace me. We are naked on a chaste bed. Boy not toy is my motto. I need the real thing, as it’s called in the coke ad.  
     I wake to his sunshine smile in the mirror, as I primp myself for work. I bundle my cocoa hair in a pony tail. I see him gazing at my bare reflection in the mirror. I’d make an exquisite study for a nude, I muse. I don my nurse’s hat. I say, “Peter how do you like me in my hat?”
     He says, “The hat is the cherry on top of the sundae.”
     I say, “Men are nothing if not predictable. But you gotta love em just the same.”
     He looks at the crinkly ceiling finish. He retorts, “Women are nothing if not unpredictable. But you gotta love em just the same.”
     I turn around with an impish smile and reply, “Aren’t we a silly pair?” I slip into my nurse’s outfit, skirt, blouse, and hat. I wonder at how our gender roles might seem bizarre to an anthropologist from Betelgeuse.
     He says, “You know cuddling with you is better than marmalade on toast.”
     I say, “Oh yes, no breakfast is complete without foreplay.”