Atop the growing pile in my hamper sits a white undershirt with a light coat of mucus on the bottom-right side. Even after another restless night of tossing in my usually comfortable bed, I awoke this morning feeling like today could be the day, the day I felt better than I have in a while. The tops of my eyes didn't have the same ache, I woke on my own free will rather than from a coughing fit, and my voice only had a slight hint of my low-rough-and-sexy sick voice. Then I actually stood up out of bed. The pressure in my head rushed from out of nowhere, as did the sneezing fit that ended up on my shirt.
Ever since a surreal night in New York over a week ago, my body has been infested with little illnesses that have left me sick and weak for about 10 days. Between ridiculous amounts of class assignments, I've been here alone, trying to take care of myself and failing miserably. Perhaps not taking any medicine (except for nasal spray) and not sleeping has contributed to that. Or maybe I'm a 22-year-old guy who's trying to take care of a 22-year-old guy, not an ideal combination. I've never heard of large amounts of buffalo wings helping cure a cold, but I try it anyway.
A couple of times I've been lying on my couch, coughing into my clammy hand, and for a split second wonder how she would take care of me. This freaks me out, considering we still barely know each other, but I can't help but remember that moment when we went back to our table and I'd noticed all the sweat I had compiled on my face. She saw me trying futilely to wipe the sweat away with my designer shirt. She removed the bar napkin from the base of her Corona and gently wiped my face dry. I kind of stared at her the whole time, acknowledging the mutual chemistry we've just accepted is there. It's way too soon, potentially unhealthy, to allow that scene to pop into my head and wonder what could be. Yet as I sit here with a congested body, I'm just wondering how it's gonna be, and waiting to feel good again.
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