I woke up to the sound of Greg banging around the kitchen and the smell of his ultra-strong coffee. Too damned lazy to move, I didn't even open my eyes. Just laid there and listened to his morning routine. Then he stopped in my doorway. I still didn't move.
My back was to the door, but I could feel his stare, that heavy stare. Finally, I heard him limp away, the front door open and shut, and the motorcycle roar to life. The roar died away and I slipped back into a fitful sleep.
Up again at 11:30. Another day of nothing. Another day filled with pure unadulterated boredom. What a waste. I was ready to scream.
Tried to watch television, but my brain shut down and my eyes became more glazed than a church window. Nothing remotely interested me. The only thing that kept me from punching in the screen was the fact that the television wasn't mine to punch in.
I shuffled to the bathroom, feeling wobbly from the total lack of exercise, but I was definitely feeling human again. The rash was drying up and scabbing over, thank God for small favors. I took a nice long bath, shaved off the beard, and resolved to go back to work tomorrow, even if it was just a few hours. And I wasn't going to spend another night in the spare bedroom. I'd rather sleep on the front stoop than spend another minute in that dungeon.
My mood improved a little. I polished off the rest of the Cheerios, then made myself comfy on the sofa and read The Alienist. With all the sleep I still ended up dozing off. The next thing I knew, Greg was sitting on the edge of the coffee table with my book in his hand.
"You lost your place," he said, reading the back cover with what appeared to be sincere interest.
"I'm sure I can find it again," I smiled.
"What's an alienist?"
"That's what psychologists and psychiatrists used to be called. That's what the book says, anyway," I answered, sitting up.
"I call them quacks," Greg snorted as he tossed the book aside. "You shaved. Your skin isn't the color of cottage cheese anymore. Dare I say that James Wilson is on the mend?"
"If that's what Gregory House wants to say."
"Hungry?"
"Sure."
"How does pizza and beer sound?"
"Pizza sounds great." My mouth watered at the thought something besides toast and cereal. "But I'll stick to ginger ale for the time being."
"Your call," he said, then dialed the pizza place without even glancing at the numbers.
I put away only two slices to his five; my eyes were bigger than my stomach. The pizza was still pretty damn good. The ginger ale had flavor again. Hopefully Greg wouldn't eat all the leftovers for breakfast tomorrow. I choked down the last anti-viral pill with dinner.
For the first time in nearly a week I could sit up for a long stretch without my back declaring war. It was wonderful. It's amazing what you can miss when an illness comes out of thin air and knocks you flat on your ass.
We were watching an ancient Bogie and Bacall flick. I was lounging against him. His arm was around my shoulder, fingers lightly stroking my neck, very comforting.
"I'm going back to work tomorrow," I announced dramatically.
"I'm not going to stop you," he replied, as if he had been waiting all evening for me to say it. That was a possibility that couldn't be ruled out.
"And I'm never sleeping in that spare bedroom again."
"Then don't."
"I'm not. I just wanted to make that clear."
"You made it crystal clear, Jimmy. Anything else?"
"Not at the moment."
"Okay. Just let me know if there is."
There wasn't. Work was probably going to kill me tomorrow, so I figured I'd better be ready for it. I settled into the master suite. Greg--the damned sleepless wonder--stayed out in the living room. At three o'clock he still wasn't in bed. No sound of the television, no piano. I had to look. He was stretched out on the sofa, engrossed in The Alienist.
