Mrs. Glick has a bedsore. We rolled her over, and there it was. It was exactly like a rose. With a big hole in it. You could put your fist right into it.
We were pretty worried, at first. If Mrs. Glick’s family noticed the bedsore, they might sue. Mrs. Glick has a large family. Thankfully, they never visit.
One night, I went into her room. I closed the door behind me. Mrs. Glick was sleeping. She’s always sleeping. Mrs. Glick is ninety-four years old. She was breathing very slowly, in her sleep.
In the dark room, lit only by the heart monitor, Mrs. Glick’s bedsore glistened like a geode.
I slipped off my clothes. I lay them on the pile of clothes by the side of the bed. I took my cigarette lighter out of my pocket.
Then I climbed into Mrs. Glick’s bedsore.
It was dark inside. I flicked on the cigarette lighter.
Sitting in a circle inside Mrs. Glick were the three other on-duty nurses. They were drinking beer and smoking.
“Shit,” said Heather, putting out her cigarette.
“You’re not gonna rat on us?” said Ang.
“We’re overworked. We’re tired” (this was Brenda).
“Come on,” said Heather. “It’s just for a drink here and there. A drag.”
I thought about it.
I thought hard.
And then I said, “Heather, please pass me a cigarette.”
Rolli’s latest book is the flash novel The Sea-Wave.