"Okay, Mr. Harris," she murmured, fixing one of the sticky circles to my thigh. "I think that just about does it. Now we have to hook you all up."

"You can call me Charlie." I watched her pull several leads over that were attached to some sort of machine. "Is this gonna hurt?"

"No." She smiled, snapping wires onto the metal connectors plastered over my chest.

"Well, Charlie, I'll be honest with you… it might hurt a little when we take these off you."

"I bet." I watched her kneel again between my legs as she started threading leads through my shorts. "Especially in those… ah… sensitive areas…"

"Yes." She smiled, her pale cheeks flushing prettily. That did it. I was a goner.

"So are you married, Ms. Anne Miller?" I asked, reading her name tag. "Any kids?"

"Yes," she replied, her full breasts brushing my thigh as she leaned around to untangle a wire. "I'm married, but no kids."

I nodded, looking down the curve of her hip as the top to her scrubs pulled up a little, revealing a band of flesh at her waist. Damned scrubs-why didn't nurses dress like stewardesses anymore? Oh right, flight attendants. Times change, I guess. Not always for the better. Still, in spite of the shapeless scrubs, her body filled them out nicely in all the right places. And no kids! No stretch marks, no flabby tummy. My mind wandered to all the wrong places.

"I've got three," I told her. She looked up at me and gave me that polite 'Is that so?' smile people always use during small talk. "I think I've got a daughter about your age. She's twenty-three."