Suzanne came in with a
washcloth that she doubled and placed across his forehead and eyes. It
was cool and moist. "There," she said. He felt her hands on his ankles
and then his socks were drawn off. She loosened his belt and fluttered
a light cover over his knees and bare feet. "There," she said again,
satisfied.
Oliver was rarely sick. It was odd but comforting to be treated like a
patient. He relaxed into the coolness of the washcloth as sounds
floated in and out of consciousness. Suzanne moved around the house. A
jazz combo started up quietly in the living room.
"Feeling better?"
"Yes."
"I'll bring the tea." She returned with mugs and two toasted English
muffins on a plate. She put them on a bedside table, went around to the
other side of the bed, and lay next to him, her head propped up on
pillows.
They sipped tea and munched on muffins. "I like it here," Oliver said.
"It's cozy," Suzanne said.
"It's hard not talking to you at work," he said.
"I hate it," she said. She put down her mug. "We don't need to think
about that now."
"No," he said, closing his eyes. She placed her hand on his chest and
rubbed slow circles. Oliver sighed and surrendered to the palm of her
hand and her fingertips.
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