The work sent me here. Being that it was a quasi-governmental corporate job, the company provided everything, all I had to do was show up - corporate apartment in a corporate apartment complex with corporate furniture, a couple pieces of southwest prints on the wall like you'd see in an auto insurance office. Not very homey, but I wasn't looking to start a family, or anything else, anytime soon. New in town, no girlfriend, closest friends and family two states away, yeah it sucked, but hey, pay me enough and I'll live in a cardboard box for you.
I'd only been living here long enough to unpack my bags and hadn't had much of an opportunity to explore my new town, but from what little I was able to glean from coworkers who had been here longer than me, the neighborhood I was now living in was called Pill Hill - "Hill" because the neighborhood was at the base of a large hill, and "Pill" because the top of the hill was crowned with two large hospitals and several buildings, no more than twelve stories high, housing doctors offices and clinics. I was told by my next-door neighbor that I'd get used to the sound of ambulances and Medevac helicopters coming and going at night; joke's on him, I normally drank myself to sleep, so I figure I wouldn't care about the noise (I'm what's called "high functioning").
After four days in my apartment and my car still in transit, boredom and not wanting to spend another night drinking tall boys alone while flipping channels got me out the door and walking around the neighborhood Wednesday evening. Aside from the hospitals and doctor's offices, Pill Hill is mainly residential, older craftsman-style houses mixed in with apartment blocks and complexes like this one. To the south was a commercial area I hadn't explored beyond the gas station where I bought those tall boy cans. It was a warm night and the walk would do me good. Across the street from the gas station was a shopping center; in the last space on the left, was a tavern: Bloodwork. Good - given the choice, I'd prefer to drink amongst people, because you never know who you're gonna run into - man, truer words were never spoken, I would learn soon.
I walked in and pulled up a stool at the bar. The cheeky name kind of gave away that I was in a hospital worker bar; the 7a opening hour and people wearing scrubs did it too. Medical staffers milled around me, looking like orderlies and surgical techs and phlebotomists and CNAs, only one or two carrying themselves like doctors; in other words, the people who actually ran Pill Hill. I didn't work in the medical field - my lving in Pill Hill was more coincidence than by design, and I got the feeling that the other patrons knew I wasn't part of the club. No one engaged me, but then again, no one was outwardly hostile either, and the Fleetwood Mac on the jukebox was just loud enough to not interfere with my thoughs. I ordered a PBR and a shot of Jameson; I was going to like Bloodwork.
I got to the middle of the label on my can when she sat down next to me. Her barstool was swiveled away from me, so my first impressions of Janyps were of her back, in a blue-green surgical scrub top, dark-brown chestnut hair with blonde highlights scooped into a neat but hasty bun, like it was assembled reflexively after the end of a shift, held in place by a green rubber band. She was pecking out a text on her phone. Slight love handles gently puffed out the sides of the scrub, suggesting a soft, warm plumpness to her. And then, Janyps swiveled towards me and I took her in.
Janyps was short and honey-colored, probably Latina, maybe Filipina. She had high cheekbones and bangs, and soft brown eyes. She wore no makeup other than lip-gloss (but then again, who puts on makeup after twelve hours of emptying bedpans and changing bandages?). On that alone she would've passed as cute, but the two treasures squirming under her scrub top pushed her well beyond cute.
Her surgical scrub top - as plain and enticing as a burlap sack - did its best to hide them, but it had its limits. There was only a hint of the beginning of cleavage visible, but there was no denying the massive titflesh lurking under the blue-green cotton. Having been a boob man since I could remember, my thoughts raced to their size. I wondered if she was wearing a practical no-frills work bra with sheer tan polyester cups, or something more flirty in white lace. Her lumpy scrub pants gave only a hint to what had to be sculpted thighs and calves. I must've looked like an idiot. Luckily, she broke the ice.
"Um, hello?" she smiled.
"Sorry, I..." I stumbled, "I'm Matt," I said, trembling slightly. She held out her hand.
"I'm Janyps."
"That's an unusual name," I said.
"Well my mom wanted me to have something unique that I'd have my whole life," she said.
She ordered a Cape Cod, I ordered another beer. We chatted briefly. She was an RN at First Presbyterian, the larger of the two hospital complexes on the hill. Nursing was her passion, and although her heart was in Pediatrics, an aging population pushed her into the Geriatric wing, where there was more demand and more money. She was early thirties and single. She loved children but was childless, largely on account of her profession's demand. Her life was a never-ending series of twelve-hour shifts, four days on, one day off, sleep, clean, repeat. Wednesdays were her Fridays, and when she did go out, she rarely went beyond Bloodwork. I found everything but the childless part believable - how could a woman who probably looked like a fertility goddess under those scrubs not have a kid? Still, probably a thought best kept to myself for now.
It was late. Janyps finished her Cape Cod, and I finished my second beer. She thanked me for the chit-chat, but the need for sleep was pulling her down. I shook her hand, and she said goodnight before she walked out the door to her car. The night was still warm.
Over the next few weeks, even after I got my car back, I made it a point to go to Bloodwork in the hopes of seeing Janyps. My hope paid off; she was a Wednesday regular. I'd like to think she wasn't before, and just started coming by on Wednesdays to see me as well. We even exchanged numbers, but I only texted her to let her know I was on my way to the bar. We talked about her life and work, mainly because it was more interesting than mine. There was a particular patient of hers, Mr. Anderson, that she had taken a liking to. He was in his 70s, with pink skin and a shock of white hair on his otherwise bald head. He had kind eyes and loved to talk about his life. He crewed a bomber in his youth, and married soon after the war ended. His wife passed some years ago and his children were grown and preoccupied with their own lives and families, so he was lucky if they came to visit during the holidays. He had a cardboard box where he kept his photos and old letters to his wife, and he liked to show Janyps its contents or reading her the letters. She said she didn't mind, she even enjoyed tending to him because he broke the monotony.
"He says he has something special for me. He won't say what it is, even when I ask him. He says he likes to keep me guessing."
"So when do you find out what it is?" I asked.
"He won't say anything more than 'soon.'"
"You looking forward to finding out?"
She sucked the last of the Cape Cod she was sipping on through her straw, which slightly jiggled her bosom as she drew the last drops from the bottom of the tumbler. "We'll see."
The folllowing Wednesday she was at Bloodwork, but out of her lumpy scrubs and poured into a paisley-patterned yellow sundress with a plunging neckline and a hem that ended a few inches above her knee. I finally got to take in her body, or as much as the sundress would let me. Her massive orbs were as soft and pale as I thought they were, and there was just the hint of scalloped black lace bra cup peeking above the neckline on her right breast. On the left breast, a tiny strawberry-colored mole no bigger than a pinprick mischievously shimmied everytime she moved. I almost asked out loud how she didn't topple over while standing. Her legs were like a gazelle's, her calves perfectly curved. She was wearing makeup, and her hair was down, which drew my eyes to her neck, around which, circling like a ring, were several small and pale-yet-noticeable bruises - hickeys? Her perfume smelled like daisies and rosewater. Janyps was dripping lust, and she probably wasn't even aware of it.
"What's the occasion?" I asked, my cock beginning to stir the more I drank her in.
