Night Shift – Part 1: Two Coffees

At three in the morning, the ward at St. Brigid's was a long corridor of soft lights, humming machines and sleeping faces. Aoife checked the last drip, signed the chart and went to the staff kitchen, where two mugs of coffee were already waiting on the counter.

One was milky, two sugars. The other was black, no sugar, and steaming gently.

Dr. Kwame Mensah was leaning against the fridge with his eyes half closed. He had been on call for eighteen hours and looked it.

"You're late," he said.

"You're early," said Aoife. "It's the same time as every week."

"That's why I'm always early. I like to know where you are."

She pretended not to hear that, and sat on the counter with her mug. This was their routine: two coffees, ten minutes, a quick conversation about the patients and the staff rota. It had started eight months ago, when she had found him asleep on a plastic chair in the family room, and had woken him with a cup of tea that he had sworn was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"I'm exhausted," said Kwame. "The man in bed twelve keeps asking for his wife, who died in 2009. We can't tell him."

"Oh, Kwame."

"It's the worst part of the job," he said quietly. "Knowing what to say and not being able to say it."

She set her mug down. "You're very good at it. I've seen you."

He looked up, his tired face softening. "Thank you. That means more than you think."

The corridor outside was silent for a long time. Only the hum of the fridge and the distant beep of a monitor broke the quiet.

"Can I ask you something?" Aoife said, turning the mug in her hands.

"Always."

"Why do you always pick the bitter coffee? Every single week, for eight months."

Kwame laughed softly, rubbing his eyes. "Because you always make me milky, two sugars, and I like to see you smile when you think I'm going to complain."

"You're very transparent."

"I'm very tired," he said. "That makes me honest."

She laughed, and he smiled, and for a moment the exhaustion slipped off his face.

"Aoife," he said. "Can I tell you something that isn't about work?"

"Yes."

"I've been wanting to ask you out since the first night you woke me up with tea. But you're a nurse and I'm your junior doctor, and I didn't want to make your life harder."

Her heart gave a sudden, startled thump. "You never said anything."

"I'm saying it now," said Kwame. "Only if you want to hear it. And only outside the ward, when neither of us is on the clock."

She slid off the counter and stood close to him, her shoulder against the fridge.

"Can I ask you something back?" she said.

"Yes."

"Would you like to have a proper coffee with me on Saturday? In town. Not in the staff kitchen. Somewhere the bitter coffee is terrible and nobody is paging either of us."

He smiled, slow and warm. "Yes," he said. "Very much."

"Green?" she asked, half teasing.

"Green," said Kwame, and reached out, slowly, to take her hand. "Very green."