the after (m, illness)
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The warm dim lighting of the bedroom is delicious, a soothing break away from white fluorescents. He’s emptying his pockets, shedding his jacket, throwing a handful of crumpled sodden Kleenex into the trash. She’s up before he can take three shaky steps into the room.
Pain sparks like pop rocks as he makes a murky attempt at clearing his throat. He turns his chin, eyes aching, vision blurring as he exhales some assuring words. He feels her hand on his shoulder, then her cool fingers against his temple. She says something, and he opens his mouth to disagree. Before he can, he’s consumed with the urge to sneeze again. And again.
A dizziness hits him, and the room starts to move on an axis. Turning, before a hand steadies him by the shoulder.
Next door, there’s faint bass. While she gets him to sit, his attention shifts to focus on the fuzzy sound, similar but separate from the pounding in his feverish head. It’s too fast to keep up with.
Blinking from a fog, he sees she’s placed a clean, comfy shirt next to him on the bed. She’s still there, by the closet, rooting around. Going on about having put away the winter things just for the temperature to drop again. He recalls the gaping holes he’d avoided on the road - too many to count. She comes back over and sets down a pair of flannel pyjama pants next to the shirt. Pausing to watch as he stares at the clothes, zoning out. He feels her hand on the back of his head and her lips press to his forehead. The next words she murmurs to him, he doesn’t contest.