hundred percent, I no longer feel feverish. Instead, I feel foggy, as though there is a hum in my ears and my limbs have fallen asleep. But I can function.
Since Jon is not home, there’s no point sitting in a cold car as it warms up. I carefully hurry down the stairs to start my car and then quickly back up the stairs, sliding for a nerve-wrecking moment near the top. Once inside, I brush my teeth, gather my things, and after peeking to see the front window is now clear, make my way back down the stairs. Crossing the river, I send out a little wish to my parents to watch out for Jon.
Whatever energy I had managed to find to drag myself to work doesn’t last long, My fog descends once again, and I struggle through my day. At lunch, instead of checking the want ads for Jon, I lay my head on the table in the break room and take a catnap, waking with an imprint of my watchband on my cheek. Nikita encourages me to go home early to get more rest, but I wave her off. In my eyes, there is no point, since it is now after lunch. There are only four more hours to go. I can do that in my sleep.
With only the occasional head bob, I finish my shift. When I get into my car, I immediately switch the stereo to a metal station, hopeful the screaming will keep me conscious for the ride home. Visions of a bowl of chicken noodle soup carry me home. After parking, I notice that the front light is on. I am too tired to contemplate whether I am happy or not to know that Jon is home. I take my time up the stairs and hardly notice or care that Jon seems tense when I walk in. I drop my things by the door and shuffle to the kitchen. Jon looks at me in confusion, and I admit that I do not feel good.
Taking a pan out to heat a can of soup, I struggle to keep my mouth from hanging open when Jon casually asks if I can make him some soup as well. Turning quickly so Jon will not see the pained look on my face, I say, "Sure."
"And some toast?"
I nod. Really, I am already making myself a bowl. It isn’t any bother to add another can to the pot and pop another slice of toast in the toaster. It’s no more work than what I have already intended to do, and even though I tell myself this, it does not hurt any less that he had not offered to make it himself since he knows I am not feeling well. I tuck that feeling way deep inside where I can ignore it because thinking about it just makes me feel worse.
I serve Jon and myself once the soup is hot. Jon finishes eating before I do and leaves his plate and bowl in the sink for me. I wash them along with my plate and bowl once I finish eating, tucking how that makes me feel inside as well. I could have said something, but really, considering I just want to go to sleep, how will it accomplish anything? At best, Jon would apologize after we talked it out and say he would be more considerate in the future, and at worst, somehow it would all turn into my fault, and I would end up feeling worse than I already did. In either scenario, a conversation will be needed, and honestly I do not want to talk to Jon, although I tell myself it’s because I’m tired and just want to go to sleep.
Jon doesn’t seem to mind that I go to sleep early. I am so exhausted I don’t even feel the movement of him climbing into bed at some point overnight. When my alarm clock goes off the next day, and I feel no improvement from the night’s rest, I know taking a sick day is my only option. I send a text to the office manager and to Nikita to let them know I’ll be out. Nikita replies almost instantly, telling me that she hopes I feel better. I turn the ringer off and turn over to go back to sleep. I wake again when Jon begins rustling. Jon snuggles up next to me, pressing himself against me. I feel like crap and turn away from him