W has been home sick for the past two weeks. And two days. Not that I’m counting or anything.
She’s had pneumonia. She’s been on steroids.
Her internal thermostat is out of whack.
It is 3o degrees outside. W is wearing a camisole. Our bedroom window is open. The overhead fan is on.
She’s like this guy:
“I can only get so naked,” she says. “You can keep putting on more clothes.”
It is one of the few times in my life that the prospect of a naked woman does absolutely nothing for me.
I ask W if she wants me to look like this dude:
She suggests that I move into the spare room upstairs where it’ll be warmer.
I know she is kidding. I know she can’t sleep without me.
But baby, it’s cold in here.