God, I feel like shit. Someone may as well drive a truck over me and then back up for good measure. I can’t remember having such a bad flu bug. The whole week has been a fucking write-off.
Hopefully, the worst is over. For the first two days something very evil was coming out of me, from both ends. Now my bones and muscles ache like hell. The only way I can stop my nose from running is to lay flat on the couch. To keep my mind off the discomfort I’m channel surfing, while I hack my lungs out and feel sorry for myself. Right now I’m watching a soap.
I’m grouchy when I get sick. I admit it. I like to moan and groan and complain. It’s probably a good thing I don’t have a girlfriend right now, even though it would be nice to have someone bring me stuff.
The entry buzzer rings. Shit, who could that be? Fuck it, I don’t want any visitors. It rings again. Shit! I roll off the couch and wobble over to the entry phone.
"Yeah?" I grunt
"Hey! It’s your big sister! Got a care package for my sick little brother!"
Christine. Figures. She’s always been more of a mother to me than our mother. Her voice sounds so cheerful it makes my head hurt. "Hey yourself Chris. I don’t know. I’m a mess, the place is a mess and there’s something very nasty loose up here."
"No way, brother-of-mine. I’m not leaving till I give you this stuff. I don’t care if you’ve got the Bubonic Plague."
Well, maybe she’s got some homemade soup, or some videos. I buzz her in and start to cinch my robe.
* * *
Good! Brad let me in. I wasn’t sure he would. My brother gets reclusive when he’s sick. But he has been holed up for days now and I’m starting to worry about him.
The door to his condo is slightly open. "Hey you!" I call cheerily, closing the door and walking into his kitchen. "Where the hell are you?"
"On the couch. Dying." I hear a little coughing fit.
I put the bag I’m carrying on the counter and go into the living room. Brad is sitting on the couch, making no effort to turn and greet me. I give him hug around the neck and a kiss on the side of the cheek. "Good to see you’re still breathing!"
"Jesus sis," he grumbles, pulling my hands away. "Tone it down a bit. I’m hurtin’ here."
"Oh, poor baby," I laugh. My brother is notorious for his bad moods when he isn’t feeling well. But I have to admit he doesn’t look good. His face is pale, his nostrils are red and chafed and it doesn’t help that he has a serious case of bed-head. There is a collection of used kleenex, dirty dishes, empty snack bags, newspapers and a big mixing bowl, which I assume wasn’t for food, strewn on the floor. Good thing I came over, I think.
"I’m sorry about the mess... and I must look like shit," he says, noticing me taking inventory.
"No problem, poor sick baby," I say. "That’s what I’m here for. I’ve got some treats for you and I’ll get your place cleaned up a bit."
* * *
I am right about the soup and videos. Sis has brought me six weekly movie rentals. I figure she threw in "Shakespeare in Love" as a hint I should get my love life together. The rest are okay. She has also brought me the latest Maxim, even though, in her words, it’s "cheap crap."
"Thanks Chris, I was starting to go insane flipping channels." I better show my appreciation.
"I can’t believe you’re actually watching a soap. I’m gonna have to tell Geoff and Sam."
"Fuck off! You better not..." Another coughing fit cuts me short. I don’t want her telling my best buddies anything. Trouble is, my sis and I are so close in age that we have always hung out with the same group. She knows everyone I know. She even went out with Geoff for a while.
"God, you sound like you’re gonna cough up a lung. Can I get you anything?"
"Some of that soup would be good," I say, and then groan. "Dammit, I wish this fucking disease would go away!"
"Soup coming right up," Christine says as she disappears into the kitchen. The sound of pots being moved around makes me wince. I recinch my robe, feeling a little self-conscious that it’s all I’m wearing. Christ, I’m in no shape to entertain anybody. But what the fuck, it’s only my sister. She’s seen me in worse condition. And not so long ago we saw each other naked. Last year a bunch of us went skinny dipping up at the lake. I discovered Christine is less shy about taking her clothes off than I am. She certainly has matured nicely, since the days we took baths together as kids.
"Be ready in a few minutes," she says, coming back into the living room. "So is your cold getting better at all?"
"Nooohhh," I moan. "I stopped barfing and don’t have the runs, but I fucking hurt all over."
* * *
I almost laugh out loud at Brad’s predictable complaining. Funny how a little bit of discomfort can turn a big, full-grown man into such a wimp. From my experience with past boyfriends, it seems to be a common transformation.
"Here," I say, grabbing a chair from the dining room and plunking it behind the couch. "Let me give the poor suffering invalid a little massage."
I give good massages. My ex-boyfriends will vouch for that. Brad definitely looks like he needs some kind of distraction. I sit down and start kneading the base of his neck.
"Uhh," he grunts when he feels the contact. Sounds like a bear who has just found a bush full of berries. His eyes close. Okay, this seems to be working.
I’ve always liked my brother’s strong shoulders. I have a thing for good shoulders on a man. Nice, detailed shoulders. I’m not sure where he got them from, because our dad was never that muscular. Brad works out though. Perhaps that’s the difference. I push my fingers up into the back of Brad’s hair.
He grunts again.
