Apologies for the delay.

(sorry. I, too, am sick.)

I’m sick. 

What kind of fucking walnut gets sick in August?

I can’t breathe through my nose, my bones hurt, and I can’t stop sweating. Being dead has to be better than having a common cold. 

I should be grateful for the chicken noodle soup my wife gave me. With the tiny crackers floating on top. But I can’t taste anything, so my appreciation is dimmed. So, I scoop up the noodles and pieces of carrots and let them slide back into the bowl from the spoon. 

“You won’t get better looking at it, you know.”

I sighed, “It just tastes warm.”

“Yes, that’s the entire point, love. You get warm, then you get sleepy, and then you get well.”

“You could always implement the exit plan.”

It was Amanda’s turn to sigh. “Royce, I’m not smothering you with a pillow. You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re supposed to love me, you know.”

“And you’re supposed to be stronger than a cold.”

I made a few grumbling noises and slurped some of the broth before it cooled off completely. “There. See? I’m eating.”

The love of my life waltzed over, laid her wrist against my damp forehead, and clicked her tongue. “Aw, sweetie, you might have the flu. You’re burning up.”

“And here you were, telling me I needed to be warm to rest.”

“Royce.” She grabbed the bowl from the bed tray and placed it on the dresser behind her. “Scoot down.” I did as instructed, and she pulled the blanket up to my chin. “Just go to sleep.”

“But I have to—”

She shook her head. “Nope. Ducky’s on it.”

“Okay, but—”

“Royce!”

“Fine. But I’m not happy about it.”

“You’re never happy about anything. You’ll live.”

I clutched the comforter in my fists and coughed into it. “But at what cost, Amanda?”