long since lost feeling in his hands, and his sight was blurring, the lights of oncoming traffic smearing unrecognizably. Simple exhaustion sent him reeling to a seedy motel right off the freeway.
Twenty minutes later he dropped heavily, blissfully into sleep.
Nine hours later he was still in bed, shivering with fever, coughing his throat raw, and cursing his too-thin gloves along with the too-thin blanket and the too-lumpy bed. He'd caught the same flu that had taken out half his volleyball team.
Sunday came and went in a gray blur of misery.
All he remembered of Monday was calling in sick. Or dead. He wasn't sure which.
By Tuesday morning the lure of his own bed drew him back onto his bike. By nightfall he crossed his own doorstep. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his bleary brain, he saw the blinking light on his answering machine. He even managed to hit the button just before falling onto his couch.
"You were right," came Sue's lyrical voice. "I quit. Call me. We can spend all of Sunday together."
He squinted awkwardly at his wall calendar. What day was it?
* * *
"My word, do you look pathetic or what?"
Mitch cracked an eye, only to shut it again. He'd had this dream a million times. Sue came in bearing cookies and ice cream and kissed away his pain. Except this time Sue was fully dressed and carried a bowl of yellow stuff, which she put in the microwave. Frankly, this fantasy didn't measure up.
"You know," continued his disgustingly nonsexual fantasy, "when you didn't call, I thought you were just being childish. Sulking or something. But when Mandy said you weren't in school, I began to wonder. Now I feel really bad about thinking all those mean things about you, because honestly, Mitch, you look half-dead."
"Yadda, yadda," he muttered. "Get to the good part."
His dream woman paused. "What?"
"The stripping-naked part." Then he cleared his throat and didn't pass out from the pain. He must be feeling better, he realized. Perhaps well enough to enjoy his fantasy for real. He opened his eyes, squinting against the light. Meanwhile, dream-Sue folded her arms and laughed. The musical sound rolled around his head, teasing away the pain.
"Well, I guess you aren't dead if you're still making passes."
He frowned. That didn't sound like any fantasy-Sue he'd create. Then his stomach rumbled—good and loud—as he smelled something strange and yet foodlike all the same.
"Feel up to some Chinese broth?" His stomach growled again, and she laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."
He didn't respond. Instead he began pushing himself upright as he fought to clear his fuddled mind. On the one hand, he didn't want to give up this Sue-fantasy, even if it ranked low on the spice meter. On the other hand, if she really stood next to him, then he definitely needed to wake up, because, sick or not, Sue and he were alone. He liked fantasies, but reality held a billion times more appeal. If only his head would stop spinning.
"Here you go." She gently settled down on the couch, her special ginger/floral scent focusing his thoughts as nothing else could.
"Sue?" he croaked. "For real?"
"For real, bad boy. Now take a bite." She lifted up a spoonful of... yellow pudding and green onions? "It's a Chinese thing. Chicken broth and steamed egg. Trust me. You'll like it."
He meant to turn away, planning on a big bowl of Wheaties, but his stomach wouldn't let him. It wanted food now. So he obediently opened his mouth. Moments later he lifted the bowl out of her hands and wolfed it down as if the yellow goo contained the elixir of life. And maybe it did. After all, God's handmaiden herself had served it to him.
"Sue?" he began again. He still couldn't quite believe she was here.
She arched an eyebrow at him. "You expecting somebody else?"
The food settled his stomach and soothed his throat, but his brain remained fuzzy. "Did I tell you to get naked?"
She grinned. "Yes, but I wouldn't want you to have a coronary just yet."
He set down
Twenty minutes later he dropped heavily, blissfully into sleep.
Nine hours later he was still in bed, shivering with fever, coughing his throat raw, and cursing his too-thin gloves along with the too-thin blanket and the too-lumpy bed. He'd caught the same flu that had taken out half his volleyball team.
Sunday came and went in a gray blur of misery.
All he remembered of Monday was calling in sick. Or dead. He wasn't sure which.
By Tuesday morning the lure of his own bed drew him back onto his bike. By nightfall he crossed his own doorstep. Somewhere, in the dim recesses of his bleary brain, he saw the blinking light on his answering machine. He even managed to hit the button just before falling onto his couch.
"You were right," came Sue's lyrical voice. "I quit. Call me. We can spend all of Sunday together."
He squinted awkwardly at his wall calendar. What day was it?
* * *
"My word, do you look pathetic or what?"
Mitch cracked an eye, only to shut it again. He'd had this dream a million times. Sue came in bearing cookies and ice cream and kissed away his pain. Except this time Sue was fully dressed and carried a bowl of yellow stuff, which she put in the microwave. Frankly, this fantasy didn't measure up.
"You know," continued his disgustingly nonsexual fantasy, "when you didn't call, I thought you were just being childish. Sulking or something. But when Mandy said you weren't in school, I began to wonder. Now I feel really bad about thinking all those mean things about you, because honestly, Mitch, you look half-dead."
"Yadda, yadda," he muttered. "Get to the good part."
His dream woman paused. "What?"
"The stripping-naked part." Then he cleared his throat and didn't pass out from the pain. He must be feeling better, he realized. Perhaps well enough to enjoy his fantasy for real. He opened his eyes, squinting against the light. Meanwhile, dream-Sue folded her arms and laughed. The musical sound rolled around his head, teasing away the pain.
"Well, I guess you aren't dead if you're still making passes."
He frowned. That didn't sound like any fantasy-Sue he'd create. Then his stomach rumbled—good and loud—as he smelled something strange and yet foodlike all the same.
"Feel up to some Chinese broth?" His stomach growled again, and she laughed. "I'll take that as a yes."
He didn't respond. Instead he began pushing himself upright as he fought to clear his fuddled mind. On the one hand, he didn't want to give up this Sue-fantasy, even if it ranked low on the spice meter. On the other hand, if she really stood next to him, then he definitely needed to wake up, because, sick or not, Sue and he were alone. He liked fantasies, but reality held a billion times more appeal. If only his head would stop spinning.
"Here you go." She gently settled down on the couch, her special ginger/floral scent focusing his thoughts as nothing else could.
"Sue?" he croaked. "For real?"
"For real, bad boy. Now take a bite." She lifted up a spoonful of... yellow pudding and green onions? "It's a Chinese thing. Chicken broth and steamed egg. Trust me. You'll like it."
He meant to turn away, planning on a big bowl of Wheaties, but his stomach wouldn't let him. It wanted food now. So he obediently opened his mouth. Moments later he lifted the bowl out of her hands and wolfed it down as if the yellow goo contained the elixir of life. And maybe it did. After all, God's handmaiden herself had served it to him.
"Sue?" he began again. He still couldn't quite believe she was here.
She arched an eyebrow at him. "You expecting somebody else?"
The food settled his stomach and soothed his throat, but his brain remained fuzzy. "Did I tell you to get naked?"
She grinned. "Yes, but I wouldn't want you to have a coronary just yet."
He set down
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