On being sick

He walked in, handsome as ever in his straight jeans and black cardigan with slightly-wrinkled shirt poking out underneath — a typical Sunday afternoon look. He looked at me, pitifully, and, it seemed, disappointed. I was in bed for the second day in a row. Sick, but not that sick. I was on the mend, but I’ve been known to declare myself well too quickly and go about business as usual, only to find myself in bed again. So this time I’d persisted in the “I’m sick” phase.

“These days must go by so slowly for you,” he said. I knew what he meant. He wasn’t talking about me. He had been feeling… convicted, I think. Is that the right word? I think so. He had been feeling convicted about how much rest he was getting, be it sleep, leisure, lack of stress, whatever. And I — pajama-clad in bed with my cat and my MacBook — was not helping the situation. He needs a buzz about the house; the hum of activity and plans hatching and the clinging of a cash register. Too much silence and rest makes him schlumpy. And I was the visual representation of how he was feeling.

I was busy thinking about all these things. We looked at each other.

“I suppose you’re thinking a lot though,” he added. Ha. Caught in the act. Ever since he declared his belief that I literally think more than other people, he has found ways to work this into our conversation. Was he being snide? No, he’s never snide. Was he trying to make up for his previous pitiful comment? Maybe. Was he wishing that he could be content in a world of words rather than a world of action? Not likely.

Perhaps he was, as Freud might suggest, projecting his need onto me?

I think I said something about being rather content with Mac and my books. He left the room. I wrote a blog post. That was 10 months ago. Today I published it. I’m like that.

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