When I touch your hand
That clicky heel. It’s starting to irritate me. Every day I watch her from my little 11a.m. nook, going off up the corridor for her coffee break. Her tight bun and her blue dress disappear to the cafeteria, taking that clicky heel along for its predictable trip. Everything’s predictable here. Hospitals always are.
By now I know how to close the door behind me so it won’t disturb you. I sit on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the tape that holds the cannula in your vein. I don’t clutch onto your hand. Instead, I run my fingers over yours, stopping when I feel your finger nail resting against my palm. You don’t stir. Just lay there, your head nestled into the pillow, leaving only your cheekbone and your chin to rebel and catch the light through the window. It’s
