Typhoid Mary

Last night, just before I collapsed into a peaceful sleep, the Squeeze, flu infested bastard that he is, did one final coughing fit….

In.  My.  Face.

Today, I have felt snuffly.  My head is full… Heavy.  I've had so much to do, but my brain has really struggled.

After I told Typhoid Mary to turn over so that he faced the damned window; I lay for hours playing scrabble or cards on my iPhone in an effort to make my brain shut down.  Just lying there in the dark, eyes closed, doesn’t work.  My brain won’t shut up.  This is the point where the Squeeze would say “neither does your damned mouth” – sadly, he is right.  I can't help it.  It is an affliction I was born with.

He coughed and sniffed for hours.  I finally went to sleep only to wake in the middle of the night and he was blessedly silent.  When my leg touched his, he was cold.  My first, groggy thought was “frick; he is dead…”

Sadly; no.  He continued to sniffle and carry on until nearly dawn.

When the alarm went off, I clamoured to wakefulness and went about getting ready for work – all the while, tiptoeing around so as not to wake him and leaving him a note as I left for work.

That, my friends, is love… empathy… consideration.  All the things that are alien to the Squeeze.