What the hell could be worse? He read off his days like a well worn script. I have never heard a more cut and dry life really. Who in the hell lives life in such a way that they can break stride name off the last, what did he say 48 hours plus and go right back like they didn't miss a step? I mean sure I lost days and weeks at a time but I knew why. He is missing life.
"What about me? Really." I am now pissed, not for my missing time but kind of pissed about how cut and dry his answers seem. I sit up and swing my feet to the floor and wait for the rocking world that doesn't come. Another fucking mystery, great.
He places a hot steamy cup on the side of the island closest to me and one on his side. I can see two plates and steaming food.
"You went out shortly after I got you in my car, you were dead to the world, I carried you in, laid you on the couch took your shoes off and covered you. You tossed and turned a few times but have slept peacefully ever since." his voice was matter of fact, and creepy. Like he was reciting a to do list of court reports.
My feet sink in to the the plush carpet as I push off the couch and wait for the world to spin, which it does but only briefly from have been laying flat so long. I try not to dwell on the fact that he took off not only my shoes but socks. I always hate sleeping in socks. I focus on him in his routine. He is putting the pan in the sink and sitting in a very practiced manor, a grab of the napkin an adjustment of the place setting. All things I have pick up on in treatment after treatment facility. We all have our quirks. Be it junkies or caregivers. We all have our ways to cope.
"Junky or scripts?" I know when he waits for me to pick up my fork or cup first. I pick up my fork.
"Pain meds."