She’s in the process of taking her hair out of the braid—that’s part of her ritual, in the morning and when she gets home, like a warrior putting on his armor. She puts on her scrubs, bottoms first, then the top. Brushes her hair and puts it in a tight, severe braid, and then knots the braid into a bun at the top of her head. Some thick black eyeliner under her eyes. Moisturizing lip gloss—something I have bought for her in the past. Then she wraps her stethoscope around her neck, and she’s armored against the day.

When she comes home, the stethoscope goes in her purse. She begins with the braid, unknots it. Slips the tie off the end, and slowly eases the locks out of the binding of the braid. She then shakes it out, the kinked tresses sticking to each other at first. Brushes it out. Then, and only then, does she begin removing her scrubs, top first, then bottoms. The shower is usually going, warming up. She’ll brush her teeth.

When she gets out of the shower, she’s a different woman. Softer, sweeter, warmer. Nurse Bell is harder, sharper, colder. Not unkind, not at all. Nurse Bell is the human definition of understanding and compassion and kindness. But it’s a kindness that has seen pretty much the worst the medical field can offer.

Nadia feels me, hears me.

Pauses, hands up behind her head, about to free the last inch of braid. I slide up behind her. Capture her hands in mine. Bring her knuckles to my lips, kiss each one, pinky to thumb of her left hand, thumb to pinky of her right. Then I kiss each palm.

She holds her breath.

Her eyes are closed—I don’t have to see her reflection in the mirror to know this. She always closes her eyes when I kiss her hands like this.

I love her hands. They are strong, efficient, capable, but they can also be soft and loving and clever.

Oh, the things she can do with these hands. I treasure the way these hands make me feel, and so I always begin our lovemaking by kissing them.

I finish unbraiding her hair; she’s got her brush on the counter, waiting. I know how she brushes her hair. I slide the brush through her black locks, beginning on the left side and working my way around to the right. Then underneath, right back around to the left. And then in sections, until the kinks are gone and the wispy flyaways are smoothed down into place and her long, wickedly thick, raven-wing hair shimmers almost blue-purple and it’s glossy again and perfect.

She just breathes, and lets me brush.

The shower is still running. I let it run.

She’s antsy. Eager. Reaching behind herself, for me.

I let her.