“I come from a long line of proud whores,” she said as I reached for the wound care tray.
I had expected her to complain. Maybe to tell me what was wrong with how I touched her or moan and mutter and curse at me for being stupid. All the things she usually did.
I hadn’t expected confessions.
“Oh?” I asked, lightly lifting the blanket from her right leg, exposing the bedsore on her ankle. She pressed her lips together, pulling the wrinkled skin of her face tight as a drawstring purse.
I soaked the washcloth in warm water before wrapping it around her foot and ankle. Only when they were fully enveloped and I felt her muscles relax under my hands did I begin to gently massage and clean the skin around the wound.
She moaned a little when I reached her feet. The faintest of whimpers sneaking past lips that had begun to relax and soften. I covered her lower leg with a warm towel and, dipping my fingers in lotion, slowly worked from the mound of her foot to each toe, pinching, kneading, stroking each one in turn.
“I never had a man on me. In me. Never had the need.”
I held my breath and kept my gaze down. Antiseptic ointment. Unscrewed lid. Fingers dipped in the cream. A thin layer of salve on the angry wound. I hoped she would say more.
She did.
Her aunts had been, as she was, strong. They had, as she had, chosen not to marry. Or they hadn’t been chosen. She didn’t say. They knew, as she knew, as I knew, what it was like to care for aging parents and lazy brothers and other people’s babies.
“I used to listen,” she said. “In the house when important men came to visit. I was a just a child. But I heard.”
Shoes dropping. Laughter. Buttons popping. Girdles. Clasps. Caught breaths. Deep sighs. Muffled gasps. Rustled sheets. Slurps. Grunts. Moans. Locks turning. Snores.
When her time had come, there had been other choices. Other paths. She went to school. Taught school. Helped one sister, then another. Wiped their children’s noses, changed diapers, paid for the white christening gowns, prayed over their fevers.
My hand moved beyond her foot. Beyond the wounded ankle. Hands, slippery with lotion, rhythmically moved up and down her calves. Slowly. Pressing. Teasing the folds and wrinkles of her knees but uncovering no more of her than what was already unclothed.
“I hear you, too.”
I stopped my work. Frozen.
“When you think I’m asleep. When you think you’re alone. I see the flickers on your screen. I hear you breathe. I wish . . .”
When I dared look at her, her watery eyes begged me to understand.
I smiled. Nodded.
That night, instead of leaving the door ajar to hear her call, I propped a laptop onto the side table and opened it to my bookmarked sites. I set out an extra towel. Lubricant. Tissues.
I only came back in after I heard her gasp. Then laugh. Then cry.

*