Copyright B. Handy 2011
Published at Smashwords
Degrees of Love
By B. Handy
My hands burned through the thick leather of the gloves, every time, but it always led to something that made it all worthwhile. My craft, everything I worked for, it amounted to something that would become even better for another.
Fuck. That feels second degree. I need to get to a first aid kit.
Phillip wandered away from his workbench, cradling his injured palm. He could feel the skin contused and preparing to blister. That one’s gonna bubble up nasty like.
It was then that he heard the whistle on the steel room floor that signaled lunch time. It would be a wasted one; time in the infirmary after all. Steel-toed boots stomped towards the on-call nurse’s office.
Phillip felt his brain twitch as he used his left hand to open the door, that which he would normally open with his injured right. A Spanish woman sat at the desk. No paper hat. No white dress. She did have nurse’s shoes though, so there was that. Her black hair was pulled tight in a bun at the nape of her neck and her brown, doe eyes rested on her newest patient with mild confusion and a hint of concern.