She comes home in her blue nurse scrubs each night, too tired and emotionally worn. I put a little more sugar than usual in her tea.
She tells me her day: doctors and families shouting at one another if not at her, drug addicted patients demanding oxycontin before it’s needed, children too young to know what terminal means.
She looks at me with a heart that’s seen too much, made dull and numb by loss and bitterness. She pleads with her eyes for an answer, for reassurance on a better tomorrow.
I put a little more sugar in her tea.
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M. A. Barr is in the middle of writing a 100-word story every day for a year. He’s clearly mad. You wouldn’t catch me doing anything like that >_>
If you liked that one, you can read more of them on his blog: Twisted Dreams in Pen and Ink
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