“I’m not moving my face.”
“It’s jumping around too fast.”
“You need to drinka lotof water. Like a gallon of water.”
She blows raspberries at me.
I pretend to wipe spit from my face. “Now you’re even more dehydrated.”
“Haaaahhhhaaa.” She laughs like a little girl, and then practically falls asleep standing up. She is a mess.
I remove the leash from Daisy’s collar and drop my messenger bag to the floor. Then I pick Bernadette up and carry her to her bed.
She keeps her eyes shut. “Are you carrying me?”
“Yes.”
She grunts, and then shivers, and then holds her head. “Ow.”
“Headache?”
“Everything ache,” she pouts.
I lower her to the unmade bed and watch her collapse into it.
“Do you want to wear those sweats, or something lighter?”
She starts to pull her top off. “Nothing. I’m hot!”
“I think you need to wear something.”
She stops moving when the sweatshirt is covering her face. “Ahhhh! No!” She pulls it back on. “Everything’s prickly!” She groans. “I hate this. I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying. I won’t let you.”
She waves her arm in the air and lets it flop down. “Just let me die.”
“Do you feel nauseous?”
“No.” She squeezes her eyes shut and then starts to say something again, and then has another dry coughing fit and then makes a strained, agonized wail. “If I die, tell my parents I love them and I’m sorry.”
I pull her fuzzy boots off her feet. “What are you sorry for?”
“For not converge-sating with them.”
“Mmmhmmm.” I’m not gonna ask. I see that she already has a big bottle of water by her bed. “Okay. When was the last time you ate? Do you have food here? I’ll order something.”
She covers her face and whimpers. “I can’t eat…Wait. I’m hungry.”
I call Daisy over and bring her up on the bed. “Stay here with Daisy. I’ll order something. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
“Daisy!” she whispers, and holds her arms out, eyes closed. Daisy licks her face and stretches out alongside her. I watch them for a few seconds, before forcing myself to look away.
My two favorite girls are in bed together.
I go into the living room to order chicken noodle soup and orange juice from the deli, then send a group text to my friends, to tell them I’m not going to make it to the bar tonight because I have to help out my neighbor. I ignore the “yeah. Help her have more orgasms” and eggplant emoji responses from them. I may have mentioned to them, the one time I met them for a beer last week, that I have a non-serious thing going on with my temporary neighbor. They pressed me for more information, but I didn’t give it to them. If I told them I was having the best sex of my life with an artist that I have nothing in common with besides a wall and a love for my dog, they’d never shut up about it.
When the food is delivered, I look around Bernadette’s apartment for a serving tray. It seems like the kind of thing she’d have. She has three of them. She must spend a lot of time in bed without me.
