I am sick today. My head is a throbbing ball of mucous, my eyes burn from fever. I am aching in every joint and just want to stay under a blanket on the sofa.
This is poor timing, as tonight I have plans to have dinner with Nikola. He is very understanding when I call to postpone, but I feel terrible about it all the same.
“It’s far from the world’s end,” he says. “We will go in a couple of days. I’m certain they will still be serving food to people in restaurants after you are feeling better.”
“But I wanted to go tonight,” I say. “I’m feeling very whiny about the whole thing. I hate rescheduling.”
“Then I will bring you dinner and we will have a meal at your sick bed. It will be very romantic.”
“I don’t want to make you sick too.”
“I have a strong Serbian constitution. I think I will survive. Unless it’s cholera. You don’t think it’s cholera, is it?”
“I’m fairly sure it’s not cholera.”
“In that case, I will be over at seven. I will surprise you with something delicious. We will make the best of your bad health.”
“Hopefully I won’t die by then,” I say.
“If you do,” he says, “I will mourn your passing after I finish eating the delicious meal I will be providing.”
“At least your priorities are in the right place.”
“I am a growing boy. Nutrition is very important. There is always time for grief later.”
I’m not sure if I’m supposed to dress up for a sick date or not. This is uncharted territory for me.
I should at least perhaps bathe.
I am still a civilized woman, after all.
Even if I am full of snot.
Leave a Reply to Andra Watkins Cancel reply