So before I begin, are you sitting down? No? *shrugs and starts to pace back and forth as I say* Go ahead, find a seat. This one’s gonna be good. Promise. 
*Stops pacing after a minute and turns to you* Ready? Great. Now, this is what happened. First let me explain that I currently have a plague-type thing going on. I’d say it’s a cold, or maybe a flu, but lucky me thinks it’s a lot of both. Yay!
Oh, for those of you who’ve been reading my blog for a while you already know how illness affects the Murphy household. For those of you who don’t, feel free to check this out (click here). It explains the dynamics between sickness and man (otherwise known as Honey versus death). It’s a pretty good drama so you may want to pop up some corn.
But I digress…
Picture this. Me on the couch last night during the early evening hour. I’m fading fast. As in I swear if the pooch wasn’t sprawled across my lap I would have slid right off the darn seat. I can barely keep my head up and Honey does what Honey does best. He remains oblivious to the pestilence that has its clutches on me. No word of a lie. This is what he says.
“Hey babe, you come here often?”
If I could have turned my cannonball head to glare at him I would have, but instead I made a face and continued to stare off into space.
“Not even a grin? What’s the matter?”
I would have frowned, but my pounding forehead said no way. “I’m sick. I’m so sick in fact I’ve been sitting here for the past hour working up the strength to go to bed.”
“No.”
He says this with such conviction I have to look. He can’t be serious. Maybe I was deluded. Could be. I gauged my fever was about 102. “You didn’t believe me when I passed on dinner? Or took medicine after I told you that I was S.I.C.K. Sick?”
“But you look great.”
Me, blink, blink.
“Your cheeks are a nice pink color.”
“That would be the fever.”
“Your eyes are glassy. Just the way they go when I’m turning you on.”
I didn’t blink this time. “Fever.”
“You’re really quiet. Makes me want to do things to you.”
If I could have hurmphed I would have. Instead I deadpan, “Fever.”
“And your hair looks particularly great tonight.”
Yeah, I didn’t have an answer to that one, other to say that someone upstairs has a helluva sense of humor. My hair did look great and the only ones to see it besides Honey and me were going to be our bed pillows. #$#@!!!
“Now that I’m looking at you, you’re quite beautiful this evening.”
*Looks right at you* Seriously, people? This is what Honey says when I feel like I’m a walking petri dish for the touch it only with a ten-foot pole specimens growing in it? “You can compliment me all you want, you’re not getting any.”
Fortunately, his thoughtless attitude gave me the strength I needed to drag my fever ridding butt up off the couch and stumble into the kitchen. I was just pouring myself a glass of juice to take to our room, when he comes up behind me and put his arms around me. When he bent to whisper in my ear, I wasn’t sure whether it was the chills from the fever or the chills from his husky voice that made me shake. “Don’t go to bed mad. I was just thinking it would be a shame to waste such a good look on sleep.”
I didn’t have the strength to shrug him off. “You better be kidding.”
“You don’t have to kiss me.”
And right there I started to steam. Again, it could have been the fever, but I’m thinking not. Quietly I asked, “Do I have to talk?”
“No.”
“Move?”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
“Do I have to breathe?”
Bingo. That got his attention. “What?”
“You know, breathe, because right now I’m thinking you’ll be getting some over my dead body. So breathing, would kind of defeat the whole purpose.”
LMAO! The look on his crestfallen face? Priceless!
Men! They have such messed up priorities, it’s a wonder the human race has survived for as long as it has. Hello? Remember the bubonic plague?
Anyone else envisioning this kind of scenario?
A London gal in the 1340’s holding up her hand and saying, “Not tonight dear, I’m feeling under the weather. Isn’t there some sort of scourge menacing the land?”
To which her single-minded mate with the messed up priorities quips, “Pish-posh. It ain’t like I’m going to let you breathe on me or anything. Lift up the nightie and let me give ya a go.” 
Riley
Who still feels like crap, but at least Honey is making me laugh. Today he called me on my cell six times. Why you may ask? Well, it seems he likes my husky phone sex operator voice. Did I mention that he was watching a documentary in the family room while I was three rooms over trying to work? He was hoping I’d talk dirty to him. So I did. I read him a scene out of my next book.
Four minutes into doing that and there he was standing at my office door *looks right at you* Aaaand, we were back to me not having to breathe on him! *Shakes head* Unbelievable!