Still sick. I feel gross. But my mind still wanders...
You push me in the bedroom, gentling forcing me to sit in bed, in a cool room, with cool sheets, and fluffy pillows supporting me. You look at me with love and concern. I don't get sick often, and I don't usually let it slow me down.
Propped up on pillows, you hand me a book and the remote.
"Relax, Sweets. I've got you." You give me that look that says not listening to you isn't an option.
I smile and nod sleepily.
I relax against the pillows, scooting down. My toes flex and stretch against the soft sheets, luxuriating in the decadence of just stopping for a while. I'm too tired for either distraction you've handed me, so I put them away. I close my eyes and drift off.
You watch me from the doorway. For once, vulnerable and showing it, I sigh in my sleep. You walk downstairs, shaking your head at me.
Time has inched forward. The room is cooler; the sun has changed position and everything is dimmer. With difficulty, my eyes open. You're sitting next to me, stroking my hair.
"How ya feelin'?" you ask.
"Eh...better." My throat and mouth are dry. You hand me something cool to drink.
You lean down to kiss my forehead. I want to say something about how much you mean to me and can't find the words. I'm at a loss.
I look into your eyes and love you more in this one moment than I ever thought possible.
"I know, Sweets. I love you, too. Get better, OK?"