Mitch hasn’t left the apartment in three days. In fact, he’s barely left the bed.
Empty glasses, formerly containing water, tea and orange juice, sit prettily on the nightstand, while the bed is cluttered with cats, DVD cases, laptop power supply cables and my knitting scraps. We’ve had a Star Wars marathon (up next? Return of the Jedi), while Mitch, having succumbed to an insistent fever, gazes blankly at the laptop screen and I, between coughing sprees, teach myself how to purl.
It’s been a long, dull, unpleasant weekend, actually. Mitch has come down with the worst of it – fever, aches, chills, cough and so on – while I’m just tired and phlegmy, but three days have come and gone, during which I’ve made a trip or two to the grocery store and a run to the video shop to rent (what else?) Knocked Up, while Mitch has contemplated, for twenty foggy minutes, whether or not it’s worth the trouble to get out of bed to grab another glass of water. Usually, it’s not.