My body apparently can't decide if it wants to be sick or night. Mornings and evenings are unpleasant (except for the sexy raspy voice I've been rockin'), days are pretty good.
What's not helping is Blair's reaction to my possible sickness. The very model of love, support and encouragement in every other situation, Blair turns into a jumpy house cat at the thought of being sick. To wit: We had just gone to bed Thursday night and turned off the light. I'd mentioned that I wasn't feeling well.
Me: "Goodnight. I (cough, cough) lov--"
Blair: "Oh my God. Are you going to cough like that all night?"
Me (strangling back another cough): "No. I just--"
Blair: "I can't be sick."
Me: "Do you want me to sleep upstairs?" (Tiniest little cough slips out.)
Blair: "Aaaugh! You're coughing right in my face! Stop it! Are you trying to make me sick? I can't be sick."
Me: "Why don't I sleep upstairs?"
Silence from Blair.
Me: "Do you want me to go?" More coughing. I can't help it.
Blair leaps from the bed. "I'll go up." He grabs his pillow and heads upstairs.
"You suck," I call out.
"I can't be sick!" he calls back.
Oh, the romance. ;)