I sneezed hard three times, my throat raw as a smoker’s. Spit hung off my lip. The pile of tissues in the basket grew by the minute and I blew my nose one more time. Dropping the snot rags off the edge of the bed into the shiny mesh bin was my only entertainment.
She entered with (another fucking) cup of salty soup when what I wanted was to be left alone, or, at least, a mild clear broth. The salt scraped along my coarse esophagus like hot gravel.
I closed my eyes and wished it all away - the sneezing, the fever, the stabbing pain in my chest like acupuncture needles on the inside, my girlfriend and the fourth cup of soup in the last two hours.
“Hey, baby.” Her lips pouty, her eyes almost weepy with sympathy, she sat softly on the edge of the bed, pulling up the blankets I’d pushed off. God, I was fucking sweltering.
She held the cup up to my lips and I wanted to yell ‘my arms aren’t broken. I can feed myself.’ I hadn’t said a word in two days, the last thing out of my mouth (other than the spit of my last sneeze and the vomit from yesterday morning) was, “Oh, shit,” just before I ran to the bathroom to project that morning’s omelet into the toilet.
I coughed, (fucking needles in my lungs) and she quickly pulled the cup away, accidentally dribbling soup onto my chest. She daubed at the Campbell’s with Kleenex as if she’d spilled wine on a priceless rug, apologizing profusely and needlessly.
“Do you want me to bring you something to read?” I shook my head and tried to sneer, to add authority to my no.
I tried to say NyQuil and my swollen throat wouldn’t let the sounds form, so I pointed at the bottle on the nightstand behind her. “Tissue?” she asked, and I shook my head, pursing my lips and furrowing my brow, like a mime, all my emotions expressed through exaggerated facial gestures. I coughed twice more, keeping my lips closed tightly to try and suppress it.
“NyQuil?”
I nodded slowly, as if communicating with a foreigner relieved to have found a point of agreement.
“Are you sure? It’s only…” she checks the clock. “…Two o-clock.” I wanted to hang the green bottle upside down and run an I.V. drip from it to arm, my head, straight into my fucking chest and into my lungs and heart. I smiled as sweetly as I could, like a child begging for a cookie he knows he’s going to get anyway.
“Ok. You need your rest,” she said, rationalizing on my behalf. She tilted the bottle and filled the measuring cap to the brim then held it up for me. I opened my mouth and she poured the elixir down my throat. One more, I thought. I’m a junkie -and I don’t care. If this is being an addict, right now, I don’t want to be clean.
I fought off sleep as long as I could, not because I didn’t want it, but because I liked the descent. Drowsiness takes the medicinal edge off the taste in my mouth, and guides me into the sweetness of dreamless sleep.
