He held the cup in his hand. His index finger passed through the handle as the cup sat in his palm secured by his curved fingers. "He cupped his fingers around the cup", he said out loud. He stood perfectly still and listened, as his eyes shifted left to right, scanning the room. He knew he was alone but, his remark seemed so absurd to him, it still caused embarrassment. This must be what stir crazy does to you.
As he slowly made his way to the reading room, he concentrated on keeping his cup holding hand from shaking, a recent and, he hoped, temporary condition that disturbed him. He used his other hand to lightly touch the chair rail, a credenza, the large wooden work table, and the back of a chair as he continued his walk.
He realized that he was actually having a good day when he found that he was using his hand to keep balance out of habit not necessity. He paused as he reached the doorway, pulling in a deep breath. He leaned on the door frame and slowly released that breath in an effort to control the uneasiness in his stomach. He appreciated that the headaches were finally gone and that had helped to revive his appetite but, it was still difficult to eat. He sipped his tea and waited just a few minutes for the feeling to pass.
He gripped the cup with his two hands and slowly sipped. The heat of the drink slid down his throat and he imagined it spreading as it warmed him. He took the last few steps into the room and placed the mug on the small table.
He stood with his back to the nearby chair. He leaned slightly forward and reached behind himself to place his hands on the armrests. Even as he began to bend his knees, he felt the stiffness in his legs and his back was like a rubberband stretched almost to its limit. He believed, he had spent more time in bed over the last couple of days than he had over the last couple of months.
When he could feel the chair supporting him, he released a long slow breath that he was unaware he had been holding. Then he slid his hands along the armrests and leaned back until all of him was cradled in the soft leather.
Again, using his two hands, he lifted the cup to his lips and took another slow sip. Placing the tea back on the table, he reached behind the mug and wrapped his long fingers around the book sitting there.
He had been in a peculiar mood, the night before, when he made this choice. He wasn't unhappy or sad, not really but, this level of physical discomfort and forced inactivity made him especially sullen and irritable.
He opened the book and, remembering the effect it had on him, figured that was probably the reason he had chosen it. He knew he was being adventurous choosing a classic like this but, this was the story he wanted to read. And since dizziness was no longer a problem, he was able to read for longer periods of time before his eyes became uncooperative and the words became blurry.
It was a familiar tale, one he could have, perhaps, written himself from his own experience. He smiled as he began to read :
"On the first Monday of the month of April,1625….." *
In little more than an hour, the book lay open and unattended in his lap as he slept.
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* Alexandre Dumas, " The Three Musketeers "