After shift

The sidewalk was bright and my eyes hated it. Scrubs, grey cardigan, tote on my shoulder, twelve hours still in my calves. Frank was on his steps with two coffees because I had texted leaving now. He is fifty-five. I am twenty-nine. He lives next door. He is not on my ward and he is not mine to chart. I told him I wanted a shower at his place and his hands on my cunt, and that if I fell asleep he should let me.

He said yes. In the kitchen he took the tote and the cardigan and asked before he kissed me. I said please. The kiss was unhurried and tasted like the coffee I had not drunk yet. I put his hands on my waist and then lower, over the scrub pants, and told him I was too tired for a performance and exactly tired enough to want to come. He laughed into my neck and walked me to the bathroom.

Warm water. His palms on my shoulders, my back, the sore place above my hips. I braced on the tile and reached back to stroke his cock, grateful he was already hard. He asked if his fingers were welcome in my cunt. I said yes and guided them there. He rubbed my clit the way I moved his wrist, steady, and I came with my forehead on my arm, a low sound, cunt clenching on his fingers, his other hand spread on my stomach. He did not ask me to reciprocate until I turned and said I wanted to. I stroked his cock until he came on my hip, kissing my wet hair, saying thank you like a neighbor who is also the man I fuck. We dried off. The scrubs went in his basket. I stole his t-shirt. I told him he could fuck me on a morning when I was not half asleep.