Well, that was unpleasant. I was -- how you say? Ah, yes: sick as the dog.
For about 36 hours I lay around my house, periodically gripped with the urgent need to vomit whether I have vomitable material in my stomach or not. I’m spared any serious problems of the bowel variety, but that’s about the only good thing I can say about the whole experience.
At about 3 AM I lay shivering and sweating in my bed, unable to sleep, and I think: maybe I’ve been poisoned. Maybe Interbionics slipped something into my drinking water or had an assassin transmit a deadly virus via a handshake, like on that one episode of 24. Maybe I’m not just sick, maybe I’m dying of some advanced retrovirus.
This may sound paranoid, but bear with me. A few months ago, after my Christmas battle with the elf at the Interbionics Holiday Ball (see post, The Interbionics Thing, 12/24/05), somebody broke into my house and stole some evidence from the Secret Chamber. I beefed up my security and haven’t had a problem since, but I never did figure out who broke in – clearly somebody that knew my secret identity. Nothing bad has happened since then, so I kind of forgot about it. But what if somebody like Interbionics came into my house and painted a clear, odorless poison on my remote control or a keyboard or something? I’m just saying, I think I have a more legitimate reason for paranoia than the average person.
So anyway, I’m gripped with nausea and sweating, irrational fear for a few long hours until I go to sleep. I dream of watermelon and Hydrangea.
When I wake up the next morning, Wendy is in my kitchen with groceries – watermelon, ginger ale, rice, apple sauce, and Eggo waffles. I stagger into the kitchen in my bathrobe, haggard and surprised.
“Wendy, this is awesome,” I say, cracking open a ginger ale. “Thanks so much. That’s weird, I was thinking of watermelon all night. How did you even know I was sick?”
“You called our house at 3 AM asking if we had any watermelon you could borrow,” Wendy says.
“Oh. All right, then.”
“Connor, your fridge is disgusting,” Wendy says, rooting around noisily in the fridge. “What is this? Are these asparagus spears? I’m cleaning this out, this is gross.”
“Knock yourself out.”
“You would think that somebody like you, who is so obsessed with their appearance, would have a really clean fridge.”
“Do I look like I’m obsessed with my appearance?” I say, wiping gunk from the corner of my mouth.
“Not right now, no,” Wendy says.
Apropos of nothing, I say, “Hey, have you talked to Emma?” Emma, the Emmanator, is Wendy’s hot cop cousin, and a member of the ECPD’s Paracrime Unit. I slept with her once and we haven’t spoken since. Actually, I think she slept with me.
“No,” Wendy says, unconvincingly, burying her head back in my disgusting fridge.
“Come on, what’s the deal?” I say, knowing that I’m whining but not caring.
Wendy sighs. “Connor, I think you should just let that one go. Emma’s really into her work, you know, she doesn’t really have time—“
“Woah, woah,” I say, indignant. “I’m not making a big deal about this, I’m not trying to steer this boat into relationship land.” My lame metaphor hangs heavy in the air.
“Okay,” Wendy says. “Then you’re okay with you guys just having that one-night thing and that’s it?”
“Of course. Please. I’m me.”
“Good. Because I think for Emma it was just sort of a conquest thing. She’s very alpha, you know.”
“A conquest thing,” I say. “Like a sport fuck.”
“That’s kind of a crude term, but that’s accurate. Oh my God, look at this. I think this was spaghetti sauce once.”
Wendy continues disemboweling my fridge as I gently sip ginger ale.
I feel sick.