Our boss is a genuinely good person. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say she treats her subordinates like friends. Even when she tosses out a sharp remark, it’s meant kindly. We all love her for that, so when we learned she was in trouble with her health, we decided to help.

She’s not in her first youth anymore, and they had to replace her hip joint due to wear. That meant two weeks in the hospital. We agreed that every day one of us would visit her — she’s divorced, and her children live abroad, so she needed the company. Not that we did much.

My turn came on a Wednesday. I had to bring her some wet wipes and pay the fee for the television. After settling the payment at a counter in a neighboring building, I went up to the traumatology ward.

She was in a double room, lying in the bed by the door. The other bed, by the window, was occupied by ... a leg. The moment I stepped in, my eyes shot toward it, instinctively. But more about that later.

First, I should say that the boss was asleep. She even takes short naps at work sometimes — never more than half an hour. I decided not to wake her. There was no hurry. I sat down on a small stool and found my gaze drawn back, irresistibly, to the leg.

Of course, it wasn’t just a leg lying there. But almost nothing else could be seen — due to the blankets, the loose nightgown, and the layers of bandages over the face. She seemed tiny to me at first, perhaps a schoolgirl. But after studying the leg more closely, I changed my mind. The curves of the calf and thigh were unmistakably feminine — full, soft, ripe. The delicate arch of the foot and the round heel completed the picture. The leg wasn’t long — not model-like — but it had an unexplainable, irresistible grace.

I felt a twinge of shame for staring, yet what harm is there in admiring beauty? The trouble was, with her face covered, she couldn’t possibly know she was being watched. Later, I wondered for a long time whether what I did was improper. Perhaps it was.

For some reason, my mind had ignored at first that the leg was injured — gravely so. Just above the knee, an iron brace was clamped into the flesh, meant, I supposed, to stretch the thighbone. From it ran a wire that, passing through a series of pulleys, connected to a heavy weight hanging before the headboard. The limb was lifted slightly, supported under the thigh, with only a cotton sling holding the ankle. The foot was frozen in a ballet pointe — which, shameful as it sounds, I found beautiful, even sexy. The sight was both terrifying and alluring, and it confused me deeply.