I’d barely gotten my Dumpling to bed before climbing into the bubble bath of my dreams, which doesn’t take much when you have an achy exhausted body and bronchitis. My fever was competing with the water and I felt like a sick soul abandoned in the Sahara.
Somehow I’d made it through work today and was barely upright on my way in the door at the end of the day. Cough, cough, cough… I’d mastered the fine art of coughing and not peeing my pants when I sneezed and nearly lost the battle.
I made dinner in a fog of sinus headache, soul-shaking coughs and bone deep exhaustion.
I’m not tired, I’m deeply burned out and heartbroken to the point of giving up. Being really sick makes me throw out spoiled ultimatums because I’m far less understanding about being disappointed when I’m already pissed off about how my body can betray me.
Sitting up to my neck in bubbles was as close to comfortable as I could get.
I saw my phone flash and flipped it over to see him. THAT HIM. My favorite Him. The only Him that matters.
For the first time in a long while, I contemplated not answering… < haha… ok… I at least considered the idea>
I jumped out of the bathtub, slippery wet and steaming while I scrambled to dry my hands enough to pick up the phone.
<fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. This man has an effect on me with one word.>
… … … crickets… .. …. ….
J- What are you up to?
Don’t judge me… I’d charter a flight to deliver him to me and I don’t care what anyone has to say about it. My heart may be a little broken, but I have an eternally optimistic soul.
I- Making dinner…
J- Come watch the game with me.
This is a stretch, even for me. There are 3 minutes left on the clock and the game is long over. The only game I have in mind has NOTHING to do with Monday night football.
I- I can’t. I’m making dinner. Join me if you want.
Oh I want. I fucking want alright. I want to watch him cook me dinner more than I ever wanted anything in the world.
Fuck water and oxygen… I want to watch this man dice and saute.
Alas, the Dumpling is asleep and I’m shrugging my damp towel off to climb into bed while he talks to me.
Trying to wipe the grin off my face as he gives me the play by play.
I- I sauteed some shallots and now I’m browning the meat… I made too much, but it smells incredible.
I kicked my towel off and pulled the sheets up my legs, biting back the moans he elicits with his verbal cooking lesson,
I- What are you hemming and hawing about now?
My mother raised a lady and I’m my Irish Grandmother’s legacy. I am stuck between right and delicious and I’m very hungry.
I’m also unapologetically masturbating while he tells me about what he’s cooking. Fuck it. If you can’t beat ’em, join em… and if you can’t join em…
Step up to the plate and turn your vibrator on to voice mode.
He yelled and I bit my lip so hard that I tasted blood.
J- Mmmmm…. Don’t yell.
He responded by yelling and I fell off the deep end and barely bit his name in my lips to keep from selling myself out.
I- What are you doing?
J- Eating a radish.*
(*I’m the worst liar of all time.)
Now I loooooooove watermelon radishes, but not enough to spontaneously gasp and moan about the joy they deliver.
He bought it though and continued to walk me down food fetish alley.
I- Mmmm, do you know what sounds good?
J- Mmm, hmmm… tell me?
I- Garlic bread with fresh-chopped garlic and grated parmesan.
Poor guy was none the wiser, though he damn near caught me a half dozen times. I, on the other hand was falling asleep peacefully instead of laying awake wanting him as his spaghetti finished.
My eyes were fighting to stay open when he laughed and told me he was going to eat dinner and go to bed.
I- Goodnight & sweet dreams.
J- That’s kind of my superpower these days.. dreaming about you. Good night beautiful.