Strapped onto the bed, natural and introduced orifices maintained fluid input and output by proxy. Through the haze, I discerned their routine movements. Bright LEDs popped on, after which the metal clanking of the door lock brought their soft padding into the room.
One smelled of lilacs; another of onions.
They never spoke as they executed functions with robotic precision. Occasionally the warmth of a hand or an arm would brush against me. I grew to crave those tidbits of touch.
When I woke from my coma, the first thing I saw were the legs of a window washer.
Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the encouraging host of Friday Fictioneers.