Curled up on the sofa, I sniffle to myself. I'm not really one for self-pity but I feel so alone right now. My ankle is throbbing painfully but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as the fact that he has left me and gone back to work. Even though he knows my foot is about to drop off! I suppose I did tell him that I was ok and that I wanted him to go away, but that's hardly the point. Back in the old days he would have stayed with me anyway, just to make sure. Even if I just had a cold, he would still look after me, bringing me drinks and paracetamol, making sure I had enough blankets. I wish I had told him how much I appreciated it. I suppose I'll have to get used to looking after myself now, since he's moving out. I can't believe he's doing it. He knows how rubbish I am alone.
Feeling thoroughly dejected, I hop into the kitchen to find some painkillers and make some tea. Tea always makes me feel better. It's not quite the same if I have to make it myself, but I guess I don't have a choice now. Clicking the kettle on, I find my favourite glittery mug and manage to distract myself for a while, looking at the way it sparkles in the harsh kitchen lighting. I've had the mug for years, I bought it the first week I was at the zoo, after I refused to use the horrible brown and cream ones that Howard had. Well, actually, I haven't had this particular mug, I've managed to break at least 6 of them, but fortunately they still sell exactly the same one at the local Woolworths store, so I keep replacing it. It reminds me of happy times. I jump as the kettle boils and clicks off and clumsily pour more water on the worktop than into my mug. Tears roll down my cheeks as I hastily grab a teatowel and try to mop up the mess I've made. Yet again. Suddenly I have to get out of there and rush toward my bedroom as fast as someone on one Cuban heeled foot can rush. I've forgotten the painkillers too but at this point I don't really care anymore and simply throw myself down on the bed, pulling the covers over my head to hide me from the world.
I must have fallen asleep like that because the next thing I remember is the clinking of a steaming mug of tea being placed on the bedside table. Opening my eyes, Howard is looking down, kindly, his hand still resting on the handle of my glittery mug. The one I left half full of tea, amidst a puddle of water in the kitchen. My sleep-fogged brain grasps for an excuse for the mess I made before stomping off to bed, but fails miserably. Confusingly, he doesn't seem angry about the latest chaos I've caused.
"I closed up early. I thought you might want some tea. I didn't mean to wake you," he smiles. "How's the ankle?"
Savouring that smile, I push myself up and reach for the steaming mug, groaning as the movement jarred my injured limb.
"It's been better," I admit, embarrassed.
My heart swells as I see the concern in his face as he leans down and carefully removes my boot. He doesn't even tell me off for wearing my boots in bed, although I suspect he'll soon insist on throwing the sheets in the washing machine because much as I love him, he is a bit of a clean freak. I mean, it's not like I've been I've been running around in the mud with my boots… I wouldn't ruin a good pair of boots by getting them dirty, I'm not that stupid!
"Ouch", I yelp, as his fingers gently examine my foot and ankle. Frowning, I notice how fat my ankle looks compared to my slim leg, it looks kind of like an upside down lollipop. I'm not sure even I could make that work. I vaguely recall skipping past an article on how to hide your fat bits in a recent issue of cheekbone (well, look at me, why on earth would I need to read something aimed at fat people, I've been on an almost permanent diet for years) and make a mental note to try to find it again.
"I don't think anything's broken, Vince, it's quite swollen though, you really should have put some ice on it earlier."
"Well, I'm sure you're very relieved about that. At least it means you won't have to stick around here to look after me now, you can get on with your flat-hunting," I spit out, taking his comment about the ice as a criticism. I don't know what's got into me lately, I never used to be this sensitive. He doesn't reply and simply leaves the room as I curse myself for my inability to keep my mouth shut. Holding the now empty mug to my chest, I cling to it desperately, as though its residual warmth could do something to thaw the cold emptiness in my heart. As the mug cools in my hands, I realise I have to chase after him before I lose him forever.
This chasing lark is no easy task with my apparently unbroken but still very sore ankle and I only make it as far as the hallway outside the bedroom.
"Vince, what on earth are you doing?"
"Getting some ice, obviously, since you're leaving," I whinge, bitterly, noticing too late the ice pack in his hand.
"I'm going nowhere, little man. How can I possibly leave you, eh? You're hopeless! And anyway, if I lived alone, I'd never get to use my new first aid kit," he grins, supporting my weight easily as he steers me into the living room and back onto the sofa.
"Thanks Howard," I whisper, clutching him to me even though we are already sitting down, unable to let him go, not now and not ever.
When I wake later, I peer at him from underneath my eyelashes, pretending to still be sleeping. My bandaged foot rests on a cushion on his lap, a blanket wrapped snugly around me. A DVD is playing quietly in the background but his eyes are on me, a relaxed smile on his lips.
"Are you really staying?" I ask, my voice trembling, hardly daring to look up and meet his eyes.
"Looks that way." He raises his hand and I realise I've been clinging to his sleeve as I slept, although he's clearly been doing nothing to release my vice-like grip, and doesn't start now.
"I'm glad," I mumble, allowing my eyes to close again. I know I should say more, tell him how much I need him, how much I've missed him lately but I can't find the words. As I drift back to sleep, I think about how warm and safe I feel here with my best friend, and how I want to stay like this forever.