malamente.
“I’m okay with them,” he said and paused for a second, “Gloves are alright.”
In bed, lying on his side, propped up by a pillow so he doesn’t have to support even the little weight he had. His torso exposed, the lower body covered by a blanket, the girl was dabbing his bare back with a small hand-towel that she dipped, from time to time, in a bowl of lukewarm water.
She was humming a tune he did not recognise.
Before she started washing him she had told him she was going to put on medical rubber gloves. She offered that almost as an apology. She said some patients felt dehumanised because of the gloves: they assumed she was repulsed to touch their body — for their age, the bed sores, the near-translucent skin. But it was only standard hygiene practice required by the agency, she’d assured him.
He was alright with the gloves. In fact, he preferred her wearing them. And he almost went on to tell her that, except such a response might have led to a conversation about physical proximity, unnecessary contact and dejection. None of which he cared to talk about.
