Truly poorly

"This is so nice", I snuffled woozily into his shoulder. A pause, where I try to work out if it would be bad manners to sneeze. "Do you think it's Spectrox Toxemia?"
Another pause, and I could sense his eyes rolling in disgust.
"No. And could you stop saying that? Even the doctor thought it was an STI."
"Oh. But if it was... would you risk life and limb to get me the antidote?"
"What? If you had an STI?"
"Why? Does bat's milk work for those too?"

He got up and left me then, but, as it transpires, this wasn't out of disgust- it was to find out what the hell I was talking about from my flatmates, all of whom are on the same wavelength as me. Although, this isn't necessarily A Good Thing; they're on such a similar wavelength that sympathy is minimal. I'd get far more interest if it really was Spectrox Toxemia, but I doubt any of them would bring me the antidote- I might get a tin-and-polka mug of hot chocolate though, if I was very lucky and providing an interesting case study.

I'm fully enjoying this- firstly, no ones ever held me when I was poorly, not even when I was a child. And while I can accept the comfort offered, I'm the first to admit I won't be doing the same thing for anyone else, unless they're very very lucky; the perks of such a job would have to be outstanding.