In the beginning, there wasn't much to say about Delia Busby: she entered your life rather abruptly one day in a whirlwind of smiles and mischievous eyes and some joking comment about bedpans that you didn't quite catch. She was a short wave from across the street, a giggle from across the ward, and once she was even a friendly "Goodnight" from across the hall. And with that, you were content. She would just be another Girl on the Lacrosse Team or Pretty Blonde Waitress from the West Cafe, delightfully distant.
Weeks came and went on this easy equilibrium, and sometimes you were able to fully convince yourself that you weren't paying special attention to her schedule, or darting your eyes around the room to catch a glimpse of her. To be honest, you should have known there would be a calm before the storm, and although it happened on a torrential day, it only took a single drop for the scales to collapse completely.
Sheets of rain were flung down as you hurried back to the Nurse's Home, but despite this you stopped and turned back amidst the downpour to accommodate the flurry of footsteps and calls of "Nurse Mount!" which nestled themselves beneath your umbrella before you were quite able to reclaim composure. So of course you fussed over her, lightly scolding the other nurse to distract yourself from the proximity of your positioning, and looking suitably amused when she laughed that "Naturally the unflappable Nurse Mount has a weapon for every occasion" in order to hide how thoroughly flapped you really were at the whole situation.
It wasn't that you were upset - on the contrary, you found your face lifting into a smile every time she looked up at you in that cheerful way of hers. It was just that things weren't supposed to end up entirely like this, and only by the time you stepped into the Nurse's home and were being ushered into Delia's room did it occur to you that you really oughtn't be doing this. Once coerced to take a seat, your eyes flitted to the walls adorned with letters and photos and posters, a stark contrast to the spartan decor of your own dorm room, and took in the gentle yellows and greens as Delia flitted about the tiny space in search of something you'd mentioned fleetingly when you'd come in. She returned empty handed and a little flushed, laughing quietly in what you assumed to be a nervous habit. You grinned despite yourself and insisted you had only been joking about wanting a stiff drink, and that you should be heading back to your own room for the night. By this point, however, you had yet to learn that it would take more than a half-hearted excuse to circumvent an evening with Delia.
"I don't care if we're swigging orange juice from feeding tubes, you and I are long overdue an evening of complaining about patients and drinking to the racier rumors about Matron!"
With that, you gave in.
From there, she became a whirl of laughter, a collection of energetic words during a break, and the delight of a shared, knowing look which sent you both into silent hysterics after Matron systematically smoothed down her dress for the umpteenth time. But you knew (and how you knew) that you were in a situation you vowed to avoid, and you agonised over it. There was no cure for your ailment, no real safety in pills or shocks; only comfort in a soft smile which made you feel sick in all the ways you shouldn't.