Problem in Le Petit Village, the cold has arrived. Both outside and inside the Boyfriend.
He came home from work clutching his throat and making little moany sounds.
But I shrugged it off. I’ve seen this before from him. The dramatics. The sad baby voice. The slow shuffle around the house. The man-flu.
But this time it might be real. He just doesn’t look right. The Boyfriend looks wrong and it’s not a good look.
And germy. You know when someone just looks germy?
And not to make it all about me me me, but I don’t want to get sick. I’m on top of a mountain. Who the hell is going to take care of me here? I’m not even sure where the nearest doctor’s office is, but I’m sure, it’s somewhere down the mountain.
And how can I stay in bed sick all day without Dr.Phil and Oprah? Here daytime television is Les Jours de les Vies and Sept dans la Maison (Days of Our Lives and Seventh Heaven). But that’s not really the same is it? I didn’t even watch those in English. Sickness requires proper daytime television.
But back to the Boyfriend. I tucked him up under a blanket on the couch and made him a hot whiskey. He accused me of trying to get him drunk. Because yeah, like I need to get him drunk.
There he laid while I busied myself in the kitchen. Occassionaly he would shout something at me.
“Then you shouldn’t be speaking”
The dramatics continued into the night, every second a little more pathetic until he finally moved to bed.
But then he woke up this morning. Coughing and sputtering. But not dramatically. Really coughing and sputtering.
The Boyfriend is sick. And now that he is sick. Not man-flu sick, but actually sick, stay in bed sick. What does he do? He gets out of bed and goes to work. In the rain.