by Kyle Hemmings
Of all the nursing assistants, she was the friendliest and had the biggest. She was from the islands, which one I don't know. Her voice was musical, this happy/sad quality. Over breaks, she complained about the low pay, how she just turned 37, the shortage of good men. Over time, her uniforms became tighter and shorter. One night, we negotiated money, and she gave me a blow job in the housekeeping closet. Her lips, sliding back and forth, mimicked, at least to me, the sound of a mophead swishing the floor. Even though the lights were out, I'd warn her when I was about to come, so I could aim it in the mop bucket. Her supervisor now walked up and down the floor, calling her name, "Matilda. Matilda, you're needed in room 106." After we finished, she creaked the door open, and left, first. The light hurt my eyes. Later, she was fired for having sex with the janitor in an empty patient's room. What's worse, I found out she was close to 58. From that time on, I had this queasy feeling whenever I smelled ammonia.
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