The Male Nurse

         "Are you all right?" the nurse asked as I sat up, the needle removed from my arm. "You look pale," he added. "I've got a glass of orange juice and an oatmeal cookie here."

I'd been giving blood for years. It was never easy. I hated needles, but I'd never had a male nurse guide me through the procedure. I mean, a handsome male nurse—my age—thirty-five—with a wide, warm smile and penetrating blue eyes. "I'm fine," I said, wondering if his unexpected presence had added to my queasiness.

The tag pinned to the lapel of his white jacket said his name was Kent."You sure?" he asked, and handed me a cookie and a paper cup half full of orange juice.

"It's the needle thing," I admitted sheepishly, taking a bite of cookie, a sip of juice. "I've been afraid of them since my first school vaccination."

"Then you're a mighty brave person, Casey. I see from your chart you've been donating a long time."

I told him about the car accident I'd been in as a teen and how several blood transfusions saved my life. "That's when I discovered I'm type AB-positive, and my blood can be transfused to patients of all blood types. I just felt I needed to help."

Smiling, he nodded, and my heart bounced. I wasn't even standing, but my knees felt weak. "Your plasma," he said, "is always in great demand and in short supply. Besides being brave, you're a very special person."

I think we each glanced at the other's ringless left hand at the same time.

My face flushed. I didn't know what to say about his compliment except, "Thank you."

Cookie eaten, juice cup drained, I stood to leave. Maybe a little too suddenly. A flash of dizziness, a wobble in my legs—Kent secured my elbow in one hand and circled my waist with an arm, saving me from sinking to the floor. He eased me into a cushiony lounge chair. "Better stay here for a minute or two," he said.

I did stay for, like, maybe two minutes, but then I quickly said good-bye and left. I certainly didn't want Kent to think I was flirting with him and had faked dizziness so I could fall into his arms. That night I called my best friend, Melissa, and told her what'd happened. "A male nurse?" she said. "Probably a nice guy, but not your type. You're hot. You need someone rugged—I've always told you that."

"I've already dated an iron worker and a policeman, remember?"

Letting out a big sigh, Melissa said, "Sorry, I'm not feeling well tonight. Something I ate, probably. Call me tomorrow."

But I didn’t call her. She called me. From the hospital. Appendicitis. After work—I'm an office manager for an insurance company—I rushed to her bedside. She smiled and said she was fine. She could go home tomorrow. Then she added, "There's a doctor or two around here you might be interested in. Just your type."

"No thanks."

I promised to cook supper at her place tomorrow night, said good-bye, and headed for the elevator. And there stood Kent, waiting at the elevator door. I nearly dropped dead. "Are you okay, Casey?" he asked, smiling the biggest smile. "You left in such a hurry the other day."

My tongue tied itself in knots. If I was surprised to see him here, I was even more surprised that he remembered my name. "I—I'm fine. I never expected..."

"The hospital is my day job," he said. "I just started volunteering at the blood bank whenever they need me. You're really all right? I've drawn a lot of blood, but I've never had anyone fall into my arms before."

Heat rushed to my face, which, I'm sure was—well, blood red. "Sorry about that. It really is the needle thing."

"It's called trypanophobia. Don't feel bad. Famous people like Jackie Chan, Snoop Dog, and Conan O'Brien suffer from the same fear. Nearly ten percent of all Americans do, too."

My head tilted. "Really? I think I feel better all ready. I mean, knowing someone else has the same problem. Famous people, even."

Kent said he was just coming off his shift and was headed for the cafeteria for a cool drink. Would I join him? My heart speeding up, I said, "Yes, of course."

At a table in the cafeteria, while we both sipped an ice tea, he said, he'd been an Army corpsman. He'd served in Afghanistan and Iraq. He'd dealt with lots of soldiers with phobias, and he thought he could offer me help.

"No pills," I said. "No tranquilizers. I'd rather go on as I am."

His smile grew wide. His blue eyes warmed my heart. "I'm simply talking about a date. Maybe if you could learn to trust the person with the needle...well, you might have an easier time."

I think my smile was even wider than his. Even better, I think I really liked this male nurse. "I'm ready for therapy," I said.

The End

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The Birthday Party

"We're not going to feel sorry for ourselves," I told Boswell, my beautiful white cat with black spots. I slumped into a chair at the kitchenette table in my apartment, four hundred miles from home, feeling especially lonely since it was my twenty-fifth birthday, my first one away from my family.

Boswell sat on the floor at my feet, licking his right paw, then wiping his face, his tale swishing. It was Friday. I'd just finished my first week at work at a new job in a new city, driven home through a blinding snowstorm, and Boswell, as usual, was waiting to be fed.

"No, sir! We're not feeling sorry for ourselves," I told Boswell again as he leaped into my lap and settled down, purring. "I'm taking a shower, then jumping into jeans and a t-shirt. We're going to have supper and then a birthday party. Cake, candles, ice cream. Like always."

After I'd hopped out of the shower, dressed, and had eaten ate supper, my cell phone rang. Mom talked first, then passed the phone on to Dad. Both exclaimed, "Happy birthday, Callie!" and said how much they missed me already and wished I were home. My family was big on birthday parties—siblings, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—the whole tribe—always celebrating. Mom took the phone one last time: "I saw Dexter yesterday. I didn't get a chance to talk to him. I think he feels so sorry..."

"Mom, I don't want to go there."

"All right, sweetheart." Then she said she loved me, wished me happy birthday again, said, "Stay warm!" and hung up.

I wished she hadn't brought up Dex's name. My ex-fiancé, Dexter Johnson, ditched me six months ago when his high school sweetheart returned to town. To make matters worse, a week later I was laid of from my office manager's job because of downsizing.

I swore off men, sent out tons of job applications, and finally snared a position as the manager of an insurance office, though I now lived far away from everyone I loved, except Boswell.

The knock on my door was hesitant. Only several light taps. When I inched the door open, security chain in place, I recognized my neighbor from across the hall. He was a handsome young man, my age probably, whom I'd managed to ignore—handsome or not—when we passed in the hallway. I knew he was a carpenter. I'd seen him park his company truck in the lot.

"Um...I hate to bother you," he said. "I'm Andrew McBride. I thought maybe you could help me."

Unhooking the security chain, I opened my door an inch or two wider and offered what I hoped was an impersonal smile. "I'll try."

"I'd just a minute ago driven home through the snow, parked my truck, and..." He went on to explain he'd found a cardboard box in the lobby of our complex, a cold, shivering white kitten inside that someone had apparently dumped off. He added, "A note in the box said her name's Lucy. I know you have a cat—I saw you carrying in cat food."

"Oh my! Poor thing. Bring her over. Let's see how she's doing."

Andrew had wrapped the kitten in a towel and held her in his arms. While Boswell scurried into my bedroom to hide, my neighbor sat at the kitchen table, and we decided that the kitten needed milk and cat food.

She devoured everything, and then fell asleep on the couch.

"Are you going to keep her?" I asked. "I would, but she'd make Boswell very unhappy. He's quite territorial."

Andrew shrugged. "Umm...at least for the weekend. I'll see how it goes."

"I'll fix you up with a litter box and cat food."

He smiled for the first time, a perfectly awesome smile complete with dimples. I hadn't noticed or cared about a man's smile since—well, since Dex bid me farewell.

"You're very kind," he said, and I felt my blood rush.

Really, he was the kind one. How any men would worry about a kitten? Certainly not Dex. Looking curiously at the cake on the table, Andrew said, "I hope I'm not interrupting someone's birthday party."

I sat down across from him. My heart pounding a bit, I couldn't believe I was going to do this. I mean, I poured out my story to a stranger.

When I finished he smiled but spoke hesitantly. "Um...you don't have to celebrate alone on a cold, wintery night," he said. "I'm available, and I love cake and ice cream.

This time his dimpled smile captured my heart.

I thought a moment of Dex, then of my family back home, all of whom had attended my last birthday party. But that was then. This was now. A different life. A new life. My turn to smile. "I'll let you cut the cake," I said, "while I get the ice cream from the fridge."

                                               The End
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The Reluctant Santa

"I cannot believe you're asking me to do this," I grumbled, while sitting at Mom's kitchen table, eating a homemade cinnamon roll and drinking coffee.

At the sink, washing dishes, Mom said, "Shhh! Your dad loved playing Santa Claus.

What would he say if you refused?"

"Dad was, like, forty-five when he started playing Santa—I'm twenty-five, Mom."

"But he would be so proud of you."

Mom was right about that—Dad would be proud of me if I took over his Santa job. The job started years ago when she talked him into being Santa for classes at the elementary school where she taught second grade. Over the years, he also ended up being Santa for the kids of many of his fellow firemen who asked for his services.

I was now a rookie fireman, and I think Mom thought it would be just natural for me to jump into Dad's Santa costume and carry on as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. Dad passed away shortly after Christmas last year. And to make my life unbelievably miserable, my girlfriend of three years dumped me just before New Year's Eve last year.

I wasn't much up for the holidays this year.

I definitely wasn't going to play Santa.

"I've got the suit unpacked and hanging in the closet," Mom said. "Thought you might try it on this morning. I'll definitely have to find a bigger pillow for you."

"Mom, I don't think—"

"Shhh. This is a new beginning, Brody. Someone's got to be Santa. Think of all those kids you'll make happy."

Refusing Mom turned out not to be an option for me. I pasted a merry Christmas smile on my face and trudged off to school with her on the morning of the last day before Christmas break, my Santa suit packed in a knapsack slung over my shoulder. The first person Mom introduced me to was Mary O'Brien, the kindergarten teacher, who smiled at me with sparkling blue eyes and said, "Thank you so much for doing this. The kids are so excited. They'll come trooping in"—she glanced at her watch—"in about a half hour."

Mom said, "I'll leave you two alone," and scurried off to her room.

"Your first time playing Santa?" Mary asked.

I gulped. I hadn't looked at a woman since Charlene ditched me. But Mary O'Brien's smile—I don't know—momentarily seemed to light up my world. "Right. First time. I'm a little nervous."

Her hand darted out. "Don't be." We shook hands. Her hand was smooth, warm, strong, and a little shiver shot up my arm. "You can dress in the restroom in the teachers' lounge. And then I'll add a little makeup."

Finally dressed as Santa, I sat in the teacher's lounge while Mary applied rogue to my face. Squaring my Santa hat on my head, her blue eyes crisscrossing me, she smiled and said, "You look great! You'll be in my kindergarten room first. Then the other rooms throughout the day."

"Why not gather the kids all together in one big assembly?"

"They get more individual attention this way. And they feel more comfortable with their own group. Don't worry. The kids are going to love you!"

And they did.

At first, a few were nervous. Like me. Especially the younger ones. But eventually many crawled onto my lap—some slowly, others eagerly—and rattled off long lists of gifts they hoped Santa would bring. "I'll try," I kept saying. "I'll try very hard." And then I'd give a hearty, deep-throated "Ho! Ho! Ho!" Beaming parents stood aside and snapped pictures. In each classroom, joy filled the room—and unexpectedly filled my heart.

Buy the end of the day I was bushed. Back into regular clothes, my face scrubbed, I slumped in a chair by Mary O'Brien' desk in her room, while she finished erasing the blackboard. "You were marvelous," she said.

"Thanks. I'd never seen myself playing Santa. Ever."

Mom poked her head into the room. "Congratulations on a job well done, Brody. You two getting acquainted?"

"We are, Mom."

Before Mom and I'd arrived at school this morning, she'd pointedly told me about Mary—single, her first year of teaching. And I'm sure Mom'd told Mary about me, though maybe not all the details about the bad time I was going through.

"Are you going to hire out as Santa?" Mary asked.

"Never. I did this only out of the goodness of my mom's heart." Then I thought of my firemen buddies—Dad's buddies, too—and said, "Um, I might play Santa for a few guys at the fire department who have kids."

Mary smiled at me—I loved that perky smile. "Faculty's getting together after school at Johnnie O's Pub. Would you like to come along?"

For the second time today, I gulped. "Your date?"

She nodded, honoring me with another smile.

"I'd love, too," I said, and stood to shake her hand once more. "Playing Santa has been pretty fun."

The End
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She Spoke no English

A GUEST POST
By

Guadalupe Diaz Sr.

             "Would you like to dance?"

“No. No thank you. No English,” she said, nodding and smiling.

"I will show you how to dance." I smiled back and extended my hand.

"I’m good at teaching. Dancing's not hard—you can do it."

“No, I no good," she said, blushing.

“It’s just a Bachatta. It's a romantic dance, really easy to learn. It's one, two, three tap. One, two, three..."

“Yes," she said, but she was shaking her head no. Her Spanish accent was strong.

I wasn't ready to give up. “I know you don’t want to because of what people will say about you, dancing with me. But it's just a dance. Not a marriage proposal."

She smiled and shook her head no again.

"Tomorrow," I said, "you'll wake up in the morning and say to yourself, 'I should have danced with that good-looking guy.' Tomorrow you will wish you would have danced just to see if you could do it. To see if you could have learned to dance like all the other pretty girls. Instead, you will sit here, and I will get up, walk away, and dance with someone else."

She shook her head no again. This time without the smile.

"It’s just a Bachatta, The dance is so simple. One, two, three, tap. One, two, three, tap. You can do that. Haven't you heard this song before?"

Suddenly she pushed me away. I was forced to stand. She arose, and I thought she was going to hurry off to the restroom, but instead she marched to the dance floor, the Latin music still beating loudly, thumping its steady rhythm.

Agile dancers—turning, flinging, spinning—packed the dance floor. She waited for a split second before I reached her, and we began in an awkward ritual of one, two, three, tap. First, in the direction of her right—one two three tap. Then, toward her left we continued, the Latin music never stopping.

We danced to a different song, same rhythm. We moved as one. I showed her the Cradle move, the Vamperia, the Hair-comb, the Yoke. Then her inside turn, my inside turn, and the turn in unison. I continued to teach and she continued to learn. As we danced, the Latin music pounded on, and our steps flowed.

The dance floor cleared then filled.

Then cleared and refilled itself like a tide.

She clung to me in the dark, noisy inside night. She clung to me as if she were drowning, holding on tightly to her life preserver. We floated upon the ocean crust. Together we rode the waves of the music, one score after another of the familiar tempo.

She inhaled my fading cologne, mixed with my sweat—my favorite shirt was drenched. And we were soaked in the sea of dancers and the sound of the crashing waves of loud Latin music. We spun together as one, elaborately in unison. We released then reengaged, smoothly. The music continued without end, as did our embrace. She danced as if it were her first time. Maybe her final time.

Surprisingly, the ballroom lights switched on, as if the sun had risen. A bilingual announcement replaced the music:  "Thank you. Have a safe trip home. Adios, amigos."

We separated from our lovers' grasp. I walked her to her chair. She flung on her coat and bid me goodbye and thank you with her eyes and her smile.  I caught her quick glance at her left hand as she dabbled at her ring finger. It possessed only a faded tan line where a diamond ring once was. The faded tan line symbolized the slow acceptance of lost love.

Sadness now washed across her eyes.

She padded my soaked chest and looked up at me.

A gleaming grin, a flicker of eyelashes, a glance over her shoulder, a hair flip—then she spun and looked back at me, her eyes capturing mine for an instant.  Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor her as she stepped through an exit door and into the darkness. I realized she spoke no English.  

The End
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