Sick envy ...

JCrew and I have been romanticizing the common cold the way a person romanticizes anything they have been away from for a certain amount of time. We're not talking about gasping, practically drowning on mucus or leaving a trail of cough drop wrappers between the pockets of our robes and the nearest bathroom, we're giving it a luxury slant. Like invalids in Jane Austen novels, lovely and flushed, weak coughs. The trashy TV time. The relationship between a couch and a prone buttocks. Magazines and broth.

"We should just go lick Kleenexes from a dumpster behind St. Mary's," I tell her, sighing.

Her boyfriend has had it. A sick so all-consuming that some days it looks like he has has been dragged into public and propped up on a stool like a forgotten puppet. Still, she has avoided this plague. We have, too, even though every day Chuck handles items that have been touched by hundreds of other people. Probably even some who don't carry Apple-scented hand sanitizer in their purse, no, the general population. People who lick Cheeto dust off their fingers.

My nose tingled yesterday. It felt like it was about to start running.

"It's coming," I said to JCrew. "I can feel it."
She looked at me and said: "Come here and give me a kiss."