Despertar

red magic and the kiss of death

Exams start in two days, so naturally, as of yesterday, I am horribly sick. What started on Friday as a tiny tickle in the back of my throat (which I mistakenly thought was just because it's freezing outside and Val still doesn't want the heat on) has blossomed abruptly into a major head cold complete with sneezing, sore throat, awful congestion. My head feels like it's full of cotton balls that are pushing at the backs of my eyes, making it difficult to study or concentrate on anything. Which is unsurprising. I would have been shocked, really, if something hadn't happened to make this week even worse than it already promised to be.

Mid-yesterday, though, after the initial tickle but before I started feeling too awful to move or eat, I started wanting to see Justin. (This happens, periodically, and I haven't figured out, yet, the extent to which it's connected to my sex drive. One day will go by, two, during which I think about him fondly and often but without the burn of wanting to see him very badly right then, though I'd always be happy to if the opportunity presented itself, and then, on the third day, every single time, I turn into this needy monster and I can't WAIT to see him; I make all sorts of ridiculous changes to my schedule and, you get it.) Still not feeling so bad, I distracted myself from sneezing and studying to call him, ask about his plans for the night. Just studying, he said. Like everyone, he was sequestered in some quiet corner of his apartment, hopped up on Adderall and listening to lite jazz as he pieced together notes from the semester.

So, okay. I had plans with Tina in the evening, anyway, but Justin and I agreed I'd call him after that; by that time he'd be ready to put the books away, anyway. Perfect.

Except that, over the next few hours, two things happened: (1) Tina got into a car accident on her way downtown and obviously canceled; and (2) my runny nose, heretofore a mild annoyance, started itching horribly, then actually hurting, my eyes started watering and little spikes of pain attacked my entire upper body like fireworks. I felt like, in a word, shit.

But I still wanted to see Justin. I sent him a text message at nine: Tina can't make it tonight, so I'm free early. How's the studying?

He sent one back: Ordering pizza, super focused because of drugs!! Can we stick to our original timeframe? Meaning he still wanted to hang out, just, later, as we'd already planned.

What I should have done, obviously, was cancel our plans myself, bundle my germy body up in bad sweatpants and continue dying alone in bed, in peace, with my books positioned around me lest I experience a burst of health and clarity. But I couldn't, I just couldn't. I wanted to see Justin, I wanted to see Justin. I wanted to see him at any cost, even if it meant infecting him with my mysterious illness right before his own exams, even if it meant contracting pneumonia myself, out there in the wintry mix with a bad head cold.

It was two hours I spent, sicker every second and too sick to think about anything of substance, agonizing over this crazy decision, this dichotomy of good and evil. Am I some sort of witch, that I actually considered kissing Justin, and more, with phlegm and other bronchial secretions leaking freely from my face? Is it Satan's influence, or the more secular "destructive magic," that it actually kind of turned me on to think about penetrating a big, strong, beautiful man with my disgusting cold germs? Does caring about someone infinitely, genuinely appreciating and feeling thankful for his good health, translate itself into a guilty little jolt of pleasure at the thought that I could steal same without his realizing it?

Because, the thing is, Justin's well-being is always at the forefront of my mind; it ranks among my top priorities, generally. I bought him a case of Balance Bars in his favorite flavor to help him keep his energy up while he studies, and I really, fervently wanted him to eat them. The time I saw him get hit in the face playing basketball, I did not feel guilty pleasure; I felt weird, protective wrath. I wanted to hit someone myself.

I never reached a conclusion on this. Maybe you can help.

(As it turned out, God smiled on Justin. I passed out at eleven-fifteen in a pool of used tissues and missed his last text message of the night: I'm finishing up now, come on over.)