![]() MIGHT BE BETTER.A Poem by Terry Collett![]() A YOUTH AND A WOMAN AND THEIR CONFLICT OVER A ZEALOUS NURSE.![]()
Mrs Milton became concerned
when Benedict slipped and cut his wrist on the beach. How did you do it? she asked, fussing over him like an old hen. Slipped on the pebbles on the steps, he said. She looked at his wrist, blood seeping, the handkerchief he’d tied around it soaked red. Best get you to the hospital, she said. Her brother-in-law drove them to the nearby hospital and a nurse (some pretty girl who oozed sexuality like a gently squeezed lemon) washed and stitched the wound up and bandaged it with her gentle hands. Mrs Milton was silent in the car back to the beach; she stared out of the window, muted. That night in bed, after an evening of few words and cold stares, she said, I saw the way you looked at that nurse, taking in her figure, watching her hands all over you, your eyes out on stoppers each time she bent over you, her breasts pushing against the cloth of her uniform, reeking of some very cheap perfume. Benedict laid there, his bandaged hand over his chest and gazed at her. She was nursing me, he said, that’s her job. I was just looking at her working. Mrs Milton, who was lying beside him turned and stared. Doing her work? She was almost molesting you; I saw her with my own eyes, she said, spittle on her lower lip. That’s ridiculous, he said, she was just going about her nursing, cleaning the wound, stitching me up, bandaging the hand, that’s all. All? she said, there was nothing all about that girl, she’d have had you in that bed working you off given the chance and if I hadn’t been there, I dread to think What the heck might have happened. Benedict sat up on one elbow and frowned. Are we talking about the same thing? You were with me in the hospital while a young nurse stitched up my hand; that is all. I was there all right, she said, getting out of bed and standing by the edge, I saw a young b***h trying to get off with my man. It ought not to be allowed to happen, she said, hands on her hips, her faded blue night dress failing to hold in her 40 year old breasts. He sat up, shook his head. I’m not surprised your husband walked out on you, Benedict said. He didn’t, I kicked him out, she said. I bet he was glad to go, he said. She was silent and got into bed and pulled the covers over her. How’s your hand? she asked. Benedict looked at his hand. Painful. Much? Stings more. Maybe if I kiss it better it might be better, she said, childlike. Might do, he said. She kissed the bandaged hand gently. Yes, feels better already, he said. She switched off the light. There was an owl far off. A movement of the bed. © 2013 Terry Collett |
StatsAuthor![]() Terry CollettUnited KingdomAboutTerry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..Writing
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