2016 – Day 6

Start writing a story that...

Step 1: starts with this dialogue: Next year, maybe

Step 2: add this word: lost

Step 3: add this word: neck

Step 4: add a character who: is in a bad mood

---------------

"Next year, maybe you should get a flu shot," Donna said, shrugging her shoulders at me to say I told you so. "I'm going to close this door so you don't get everyone else sick."

She closed the door with just enough force to alert the rest of my housemates that Typhoid Mary had been dealt with.

"But if you had the flu shot, why are you so worried!" I called to her. Except it was more of a whisper and it was muted by the comforter covering every inch of my body except for my watery eyes and sweaty forehead.

That night, while my housemates drank dirty martinis and debated the undercurrents of misogyny in Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow, I watched The Bachelorette. When they peeked in to make sure I hadn't perished and threw crackers to me from the safety of the doorway, I told them I was only watching it because my brain was too feverish to grapple with the American Masters episode on David Mamet I was dying to watch, but the truth is I was grateful to have an excuse not to watch that or any other shows they would approve of.

Though I wanted to blame my lack of enthusiasm on the illness, I knew in reality that I was simply lost. The effort of fighting the fever and coughing and having no one to care for me had stripped away my energy to feign excitement about things I actually didn't like. Who the hell cares about Proust or Joyce or Tolstoy. They're old men. Dead old men. Here I was, an amazing young woman in the prime of her life who was now on the verge of death, and they wanted me to waste the few short breaths that remained on discussions about Rousseau's views on happiness? Fuck his happiness. I want my happiness.

I felt my neck itching from the sweat that had dripped down my scalp, and so I emerged from my cocoon, flinging the comforter to the floor. I tried sitting up, but felt dizzy immediately. The room wasn't spinning so much as it was undulating and I took that as a sign that I should lie down again. As I lay there in my sweat-soaked sheets, debating how long I could go before I had to call my mother, Grant stormed in.

He didn't appear to see me right away, which gave me enough time to cover myself. It wasn't that I was a prude, but I was a sweaty, discussing mess, and also he was Donna's boyfriend. I coughed, startling him.

"Woah, sorry!" he said, frowning as he took in the sad sight before him. "I didn't see you out there with everyone, so I figured you were out. I just needed a quiet space to think... You okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "I have a fever."

"Oh, that sucks."

I waited to see if there would be further concern, which I wouldn't have minded, or an offer to fetch me soup or some other sustenance you might offer to sick people. He stared quietly, then eyed the door. As he started moving toward it, I decided some company was better than no company.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"What? Oh, you probably should rest. I don't want to bother you."

"No, it's no bother. What's wrong?"

He turned and sighed, his shoulders heaving with the weight of his burden.

"Donna is driving me insane. I wasn't going to come over tonight because they're discussing a book I never read, but then Donna started complaining that I never do anything intellectual with her, even though we go to those ridiculous student plays all the time. Anyway, she talked me into coming over, and I tried to join the conversation, but they're just going off on how Pynchon writes shitty women characters. So I ask them, then why do you read Pynchon? And they say, because that's the canon that everyone's supposed to understand. Did I think they shouldn't be reading that? And I said, no, of course not, but if it's pissing you off so much, why not pick something else. For example, my sister liked the Bridget Jones book. And then the yelling started!"

He moved from his spot in front of the door to stand at the window. I couldn't see what he was looking at, but the reflection of his face stared back into the room. He was distraught. Clearly, no one would be bringing me soup. I reached for the remote. Tomorrow, I'd have to call mom.