Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Bloated Artery

"Where is he, [M. Biologique]?!" I ranted clenching my fists as he and I exited the restaurant. "Where's my man who will bring me soup when I'm sick? That's all I'm asking: a soup bringer! I am a good woman. I am SO good. I'm so freakin' good, I'm SOY good. So where is he?!"

"I'm a good man, Lily."

"No you're not."

That was three days ago. I'm now sick. As sick as a hummus covered spring roll. I've lost my voice and whatever does make it out sounds like George Burns sucking on a cigar stump soaked in "frog."

He knocked on the door. It was 10 in the morning. I had been doing my laundry in the tub until 4. I answered the door.

"[M. Biologique?]"

He was leaning on the door and told me to put some clothes on. What was he doing here? I cussed him out mockingly yesterday when he and 6' Amazon intercepted me as I was leaving a tiny organic grocery. I called him later that night requesting advice for treating laryngitis. He told me to chew on ginger and garlic. I told him to go to hell. He told me 6' Amazon was just taking him out birthday shopping. My parting words: "Annoy me soon."

And here he was on his birthday taking care of me between classes. He stepped out of the kitchen with some sort of herbal concoction he put together and told me to gulp it down. I burrowed into him on the couch and we read the news together, Ella Fitzgerald adding an almost anachronistic sensation to the atmosphere.

I got it bad and that ain't good ...

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