Cooties

She lifts the hem of his t-shirt and he raises his arms in the air reflexively, almost like a child cooperating with his mother undressing him. As she pulls it over his head, he falls back against the pillows, looking at her through bleary eyes. She’s not used to seeing him this way. She’s relieved him of his shirt like this many times, but in those situations her feelings were anything but maternal. The look in his eyes anything but childish.

Rooting through the jumble of water glasses, iPod chords, discarded throat lozenge wrappers, bottles of cough syrup and Tylenol, paperback novels and an empty tissue box, she finally locates the jar of Vick’s Vapor Rub on the nightstand. It’s half hidden behind a framed photo. He’d taken it last summer, at the lake; she’s staring straight into the camera, nose sun burnt pink, hair wild in the breeze. She’s grinning like there’s nowhere else she’d want to be. Like there’s nowhere else period.

She scoops out some of the ointment and rubs her palms together before laying them flat against his chest. The heat of his skin confirms the febrile glaze of his eyes, as she spreads the goo up towards his neck and shoulders, then back down to where the soft hairs fade into the smooth skin of his stomach. Her hands know this path well, know the texture and contours and feel of all of him.

But this is different. He’s usually the big strapping anchor, the caretaker. A sharp pang shoots through her own chest, as her fingers glide over him and a searing tenderness takes hold. For a moment she’s almost glad he has the flu. Not that he’s sick, of course, but that she gets to be this, to do this. To take care of him.

‘Feels good,’ he murmurs, the rawness of his throat audible in his voice.

She lowers her face to kiss him by his clavicle. A trace of the Vick’s gets on her lips and it makes them feel like they’re vibrating.

‘Careful,’ he warns, ‘you’re going to catch this.’

‘Too late,’ she smiles. ‘Dwight told me all about it today.  He says you’re contagious for a couple of days before you start feeling sick. And…I better quote him: sexual activity is an engraved invitation to germs. No RSVP necessary.’

‘Nice. Poetic.’

‘So, basically I already have your cooties.’

‘Well, it serves you right for always being all over me, Beesly.’

She just rolls her eyes as she wipes the last remnants across his skin and closes the jar.

‘Like a bad coat,’ he smirks.

‘I think your fever is making you delusional.’

‘Shit, my throat,’ he rasps pleadingly. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

The chuckle he can’t quite suppress sounds painful and she feels a little guilty. She goes over to his dresser to look for something clean for him to put on. In the back of his bottom drawer she finds a pair of light blue pajamas. Real pajamas. She holds them up, raising her eyebrows quizzically.

‘Pajamas,’ he states the obvious.

He usually wears boxer shorts to bed. And more often than not, even those don’t last very long, spending most of the night on the floor or tangled in the sheets.

‘What?’ he asks, sounding surprised at her surprise.

‘Nothing. I just didn’t know you had any.’

‘Of course I have pajamas, Pam. What am I, an animal?’ his tone is as indignant as he can manage with his tortured gravelly voice. ‘Never actually wear them, but…’

‘Well, you’re supposed to wear them when you're sick. There’s a protocol here, Jim.’ She tosses them to him. ‘Need help?’

‘That’s okay, Mom. I think I can dress myself.’

 Leaving him to his own devices, she goes to the kitchen to make some tea. When she returns, he’s wearing the pajamas. Sort of. He’s only bothered with a couple of the shirt buttons and those are misaligned. Remote in hand, he’s drowsily flipping around channels, clearly paying no attention to that either. While he drinks the tea, she sits down next to him and corrects the buttons, closing a few more as well. He gives her an abstracted hazy smile, somehow both bemused and grateful. That surge of tenderness wells up and courses through her again.  

She moves up beside him and leans back against the headboard, as he simultaneously repositions himself to rest his head in her lap. She brushes his hair back from his sweaty forehead, and he closes his eyes at her touch.  Soon she hears him snoring lightly.  Maybe when he wakes up she’ll warm some soup for him. Maybe she’ll do anything he wants.

A tickle is beginning to form in the back of her throat and her joints are vaguely achy. His sleepiness is contagious too. Trying not to disturb him, she slides down and spoons up behind him, her hand splayed protectively against his stomach.  He sighs and instinctively presses incrementally back into her. She’s pretty sure she’s coming down with whatever he has.

Score one for Dwight. She doesn’t even mind.