Earlier this week, The Foliage got really, disgustingly sick. Seriously, it was gross. I was there when he got horrible food poisoning over New Year's Eve last year, and totally helped him out then, but this was different. It was happening in our new apartment. Our new, clean, shiny apartment. And he was vomiting all over it.
OKFINE he was only vomiting in the approved receptacles. But it was still less awesome than, say, not vomiting in the first place.
So I went to work while he stayed home sick, and I asked him if I could get him anything. He wanted chicken soup and a soda. After work I went across the street to Panera, and got his food. But this Panera doesn't have soda in bottles, only fountain soda in plastic cups with flimsy lids. And I had to take the metro home.
The train was, of course, PACKED for rush hour, so I took the less-crowded train that ends before my stop. Even then I was standing, and constantly checking my two liquid items to make sure they were still intact. The train kicked me off at the end of the line, and I waited in the cold for a second one to come along and take me the rest of the way.
From the time I left Panera, to the time I set the food down on our counter, I was visualizing ways for this whole process to be ruined. I kept imagining people slamming into me on the metro, or a door flying open too fast, or sticking out an arm to grap the escalator rail and dropping the bag. Basically, it was 45 minutes of total panic and self-doubt.
When I got home to Leaf, sitting weakly and dehydrated in bed, I thought, "I shouldn't tell him. I don't want him to feel badly about the hassle."
But then I did.
Because that's the kind of girl I am.
That is the end of that story. No, really.