Dish Rag

10 Jun

I was sick all weekend after Acapulco. Not a psychosomatic illness – if I was prone to those I’d be sick most of the time. I went to bed at sunset, wracked with chills, which didn’t stop Ann from coming into the darkened room to complain about bills, about my car insurance lapsing and my driver’s license being revoked. It was one of those odd defining moments: physically ill, sick at heart about the deal memo, exhausted by the traveling, and being forced to listen to Ann’s compulsive nattering.

On the hour I’d wake from anxiety dreams to stagger to the bathroom to varnish the inside of the toilet bowl with yellow shit.

This low boil from Ann continued throughout the weekend as I slowly recovered.

Then, Sunday night, feeling better, I learn my license isn’t suspended – it was a conclusion Ann had jumped to. And the insurance problem was with her policy, not mine. When I demanded an apology, she stomped off to bed, saying, “You never apologize.”

I eventually followed Ann up to bed. I woke at three a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. My body felt like a vast landscape in which a rolling thunderstorm was passing through – a final visitation from the bug I picked up in Mexico.



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