Part of living with the one you love is sharing things. The toothpaste. Half your Clementine. The covers.
Your cold.
Yesterday afternoon, I got hit by a "sneak attack" upper respiratory thing -- you know the kind I mean, the ones that come from out of no where and within an hour you are up to your eyeballs in muck (or at least that's how it feels). By early evening I felt like crawling under a rock, but I had committed myself to meet a friend for a yoga meditation class we are trying out, and I didn't want to cancel on such short notice after having told her just that morning I would definitely be at the fountain at Saint Michel by 7:15. I did the class and actually felt a bit better afterward, so that when I met Georges afterward for a drink, I thought I was shaking the darn thing off.
Not so. Not only did I wake up feeling like an elephant was sitting on my chest, but I seem to have already passed whatever it is (Bad chest cold? Bronchitis? Too soon to tell, but I fear the latter) to poor Georges. Ugh.
So instead of going to see "Paris" tonight at the movies as planned, we will probably be home, drinking gallons of orange juice and trying to beat this thing back with every remedy known to both French and American over-the-counter medicine.
This is what happens when you love someone so much, you're willing to risk a kiss even when you know they are contagious. I don't like being sick, and neither does he... but sometimes, it's just plain worth it.
