Hick has returned from his business trip to the east coast last week. He brought us a little surprise. A sickness that starts with fever and progresses to weakness, snuffling, whining, and coughing up chunks of vital lung tissue. I hope it's not Captain Trips.
I really don't feel like walking all the way to Denver. And besides. I've not been dreaming of a little grammy-lady rocking on her front porch. Nor have I been dreaming of a dark man. I suppose my soul is up for grabs.
Last night, I avoided bedtime like a toddler hopped up on birthday cake and Mountain Dew. When I forced myself to retire at 2:15 a.m., I could not fall asleep. The final straw that broke this damsel's back was when Hick rolled over and spewed his breather breath across my neck, over my right ear, and past my face. My face, with its attached nose and throat! Prime pathways for pathogens to follow while I snoozed the snooze of the unconscious. I tried to hold my breath, but I am not some freaky sort of David Blaine creature who can be buried in a coffin of water for days at a time without need of oxygen.
I forsook the bed and made Hick's big blue recliner my resting place. And in keeping with the infectious-disease protocols understood only by himself, Hick opened the bedroom door upon arising and HUFFED through the opening, right across my defenseless face. Deja vu.
This evening, I will be actively avoiding Typhoid Mary, Patient Zero, and The Original Swine Flu Boy all rolled into one and referred to around these parts simply as "Hick." Because I don't want any part of this pandemic he might be spreading.