delirium

I was almost delirious with fever for four days. If hell were real, I guess I had a taste of it last Tuesday, when the fever was at its scare-the-mercury-out-of-the-thermometer highest. I told my boss that I would be more useful in bed than in my cubicle. (bed as in sick bed, you perverts!) Which is another way of saying that I’m sick and tired of work. Good thing she was in a good mood and she readily allowed me to leave the office early. She probably thought that having a subordinate suddenly dropping on the floor, frothing in the mouth while convulsing and twisting and shouting “Yeah, hooded motherfucker with a skull head and a scythe thingie, take me, oh yes, take me and let me be your boy toy!” would be such an obscene sight to behold. Not that I would allow myself to die in such an overly mawkish, soap-opera-ish way. Not me. When it’s time for me to kick the bucket, I would die in style. I won’t allow anyone to say “Oh, look at that poor shit, he died like a true-blooded fucktard should.” When I die, I would inspire awe, wonder, dignity, and perhaps even eroticism. Of course you would have to kill me first to find out what I’m talking about.

So what happened from the time I went home from the office until today? I pretty much spent my time sleeping. Oh and what a shitty experience that was. It was so hot in my room I had to strip down to my underwear. It felt like a Freddie Kruger nightmare—not my underwear; I meant my condition. Merry imps danced the rumba inside my head. Every time I closed my eyes, weird thoughts wheezed through my subconscious; disjointed ideas shot through like idiotic Bush-inspired war jets; and unintelligible philosophies tap-danced on my cranium. It was kinda like this post, the only difference was that this time, every idea, every thought sent pain signals to my poor, woozy brain. What did I do to deserve to see imps with large hairy hands and small, three-toed feet and faces as surreal as Michael Jackson’s cavorting to Britney Spear’s latest crap? Oh, deities of the netherworld! Oh gods of Olympus, destroy me now and cut the “make him crazy” part short! I can’t take it anymore!

But of course, those assholes on Mount Olympus didn’t cut it short, otherwise they wouldn’t be called gods. So I had to take matters into my own hands. There’s no use writhing and thrashing in bed in my undies like a porn actor. On the third day, despite my heavy head, I dressed up, popped in some paracetamol, and did my best impression of a walking corpse. I figured it was the best time to do a long overdue transaction with my bank in the mall. I might just get them to approve my request just by showing my sallow face, sunken eyes and all. Can they really turn away a poor, dying guy?

Well apparently, they could. That’s what banks are for. After letting me wait for an hour, they told me that my request was subject for approval by the freaking manager and that the freaking manager will call me but don’t call us blah blah. What was that, a job interview?

And so, like a decaying carcass taking a promenade, I strolled out of the bank and into the mall, thinking if I should just go home or drop dead in one corner to get some love and attention. That’s when she texted.

“I’m in Starbucks, where are you?”

So much for seeking love and attention by pulling some stupid act. I hurriedly sprinted (in my current state, sprinting meant two slow strides a minute) to Starbucks. There she was with a friend from the office, remnants of coffee mixes rotting on their table. After the perfunctory pecking, necessary introductions, and customary small talk, her friend left.

“I’m so glad you were near, I was already getting bored with her,” she said. I told her I was terribly sick. She said she had with her some headache tablets she had intended to give to her mother; she could give me three of them. Since I couldn’t pop in those pills with a grumbling stomach, we went to eat in a restaurant.

For a while I forgot I was sick. We were laughing and swapping stories as if we hadn’t seen each other just two weeks ago. As is usually the case, our conversations spanned a gamut of topics, from the most serious to the most obscene. I can be open to her like that. What transpired between the two of us several lusty moons ago, apparently, did not destroy the friendship. It further strengthened the bond and made us more open to each other. How can I still withhold something from her when she has already seen me devoid of anything, figuratively and literally?

I intimated to her what I like about physical intimacy. And she said that’s exactly what she had in mind. We both agreed that, maybe, just maybe, the lusty moon would come shining down on us again. And we both laughed.

“I guess there’s a reason why we didn’t end up getting married. We’ve so many things in common our marriage would become bland at some point.”

I agreed. I like it better this way. Marriage is not the only thing that can bind two souls together. There’s something else infinitely stronger. And that’s what we have.

I felt healed when I saw her off that night. It was a refreshing feeling.

The next morning, I was back in my bed, thrashing and writhing in delirium again.