Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

and threw up her hands and... disappeared.
    Of course I asked, and of course nobody had any idea what I was talking about. They thought I'd just seen a patient or another nurse and been too tired and well, you know the drill. Except none of that explains why her eyes were glowing freaky green.
    The war still haunts us all. In my case, it's just a little more literal, I guess.
    I'm following the ghost nurse's path, silently cursing my compulsion, when a doctor catches me by the elbow. "The American patient's awake," the doctor tells me, not even glancing up from his chart to look me in the eye. I might as well be a robot or a janitor, for all the recognition I get. "Go check in on him."
    Well, fuck him anyway. Nursing's an honest job, and a good job, and I'd rather be a nurse who knows every patient's name and story than a high and mighty doctor who's only in it for the Mercedes-Benz.
    Which makes it kind of strange that I don't know this American.
    I walk into the ward with a grin, excited to practice my English. "Welcome to Helsinki, Mr..." I take a glance at the bracelet around his tanned wrist, but he answers me before I get a chance to read it.
    "Green," he finishes. "Joe Green."
    He's tanned, gorgeous. A Hollywood movie star in Technicolor. I run a hand through my own pale blond hair, hoping his reaction will key me in on whether it's worth it to flirt.
    "Vodka martini? Shaken, not stirred?" I ask him, and he laughs. Yeah, maybe it is.
    "Just pour it in the IV." He has the kind of smile that I don't associate with Americans, not all brash and fluoride-gleaming, more calm and speaking of a quiet confidence. I'm reading a lot into his smile, I realize. Like I already know him and understand the subtleties of his expressions. "How about you?"
    His question kind of takes me aback, and I don't know why. For a second, I forget my own name. Jeeze, I'm falling hard .
    "Umm, Tenho. I mean, that's my name." I remember my duties, finally. "How's your leg? Are you experiencing any pain?"
    "Nah," Joe replies. "They got me on the good stuff, I think."
    I nod stupidly, not sure what to say next. What to say... what to say... "What brings you to Finland?" I blurt out.
    Instead of being snide about my awkwardness, he smiles again, this time shy, unable to quite meet my eyes. He fists the light blue blanket draped over his good leg and then higher over the bulky shape of his cast. "Promise not to laugh."
    "I'm a male nurse. I promise." I put my hand over my heart for emphasis.
    "You read any Jack Kerouac?" I shake my head. "Not to sound like a big head, but it's kinda like that. I'm a writer. I did journalism in college, I've written some stuff for the Berkeley Barb, but I feel like... I want..."
    I realize I have moved closer to his bedside, lingering, anxious to sit and hold his hand or comb my fingers through his hair. It feels like pillow talk, somehow. Intimate and sweet. I wait for him to finish his sentence.
    "Well, I guess I just want to write something real ."
    Real. Yeah, I know that feeling, like your whole life is a dream, like you're waiting for something to happen, something that's gonna change everything, make you a new kind of man.
    Except now I know what it feels like on the other side.
    The other side? I catch myself. Don't get ahead of yourself, Tenho. Don't scare him off.
    "And I think I'm almost there," Joe says. "I was putting it down. And then I got in that stupid motorcycle wreck. I can't believe I—you people have been fantastic, though. You've got this great spirit. Sisu , you call it, right? I should have the words for what I feel here, in this land, but I don't, not yet. They slip away." He pauses and takes a deep breath, winces. I wonder if he's telling the truth about the pain. "But then, sometimes I think the search for wholeness is overrated. I can't know everything, comprehend everything, articulate everything. Incomplete things, they're beautiful too, you know? I have to work with my limitations."
    I know what Joe means, perhaps before even he does. I rest my hand on his. "Hey, you'll walk again. Just give it some time. We've got an excellent physical therapy program."
    The sun slips over the curtain just then and touches his hair. There's a subtle flame dancing in the light between the strands. It's dizzying. This man makes me feel like shouting poetry. I resist the urge, but I don't deny it.
    "It looks like I'll be here a while, yeah. Are you a regular here? You'll come and visit me? I can't