The Fever

“You’re not really here.”

“And why would you think that? I heard you’ve been sick again.”

“Because why would you be? I’m not dying of cancer, I have the flu.” I rolled my eyes back into my fever-swelled head.

“You wanted me here.” He affirmed.

“I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Since when do you listen to The Doors?” he scoffed, nodding to the poster above my bedroom door.
“After you. Would you feel my head? I think I have a fever.”

“Have you taken your temperature?”
“No, I just know it’s a fever.”

“Well, it is a hundred and two outside; we’re all pretty sweaty.” He shrugged.

“If you’re going to be here, can you at least play nurse and take care of me for once.”

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my toes pressed into the cowhide rug. I let myself feel the floor beneath me before heaving my body up to follow. I could feel the weight of my head on my neck. If I let myself think about it too hard, which I often did, I could imagine it crushing my vertebrae one by one. I swore I could hear the crunch. I remember thinking, broken vertebrae or not, I had to pee. I shoved past him, putting one foot in front of the other, making nine seconds take five minutes until I got to the toilet. I struggled my underwear off my hips, dropped down, and took relief in the momentary rest. I let my head into my hands and my elbows onto my knees when I heard him call out from my room. I didn’t look at myself in the mirror while washing my hands. I was worried I’d see the size of my head and crumble under the weight. I made my way back to bed.

“Do you read any of these books?” he asked doubtfully.  I had just collapsed into the bed, returning to the horizontal state I had been in since before he arrived. It had been days of fever and heatwave melding into one. My groceries dwindled down to bread and cheese. My hair was matted with sweat to my neck and my cheeks were flushed pink. The heat pressed down on me, weighing me down relentlessly, and I could barely differentiate the heat wave from the fever. I was convinced I could feel the fever though, deep in my bones I could feel something wrong. Something collecting and radiating heat—a burning from within that left me weak and confused. But my nose wasn’t congested, and my throat didn’t sting. Still, it had to be a fever. Outside, the city droned on through the heat. People made their way to their very important meetings and social gatherings, acting as if their sweat-soaked backs didn’t bother them. My head throbbed with a dull, pulsing ache, each beat in sync with the distant hum of air conditioners rattling outside. I had drawn my lace curtains for some repose from the sun and the life outside. It danced patterned pockets of sunlight throughout the room but shaded very little.

“What about this one?” he asked again and tossed Martyr! to my side.

“You shouldn’t be here, anyway. You don’t want what I have.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Would you please just take care of me for once? Can you refill my water bottle?”

“If you don’t read any of these books, what are you doing with them? Who are they for?”
“I didn’t say I don’t read them.”
“Yeah, but I know you.” He raised his eyebrow behind his glasses. “And what about these?” He lingered in the corner of my room, running his finger over the years-old yarn and half-filled sketchbooks. “What do you think is your next big project?”

I had started an earnest response when the glint in his eye told me it was another one of his glib remarks.

“You’re not really here, are you?”

“What makes you think that?”
“Are you just here to mock me? Is this fun for you?”
He half-smiled and sauntered his way to the side of my bed. It brought back memories of when he would come to bed when the apartment was ours. That was two years and a lifetime ago, but I felt stuck in the same place he left me. He sat close to my ill body, I could feel his lower back graze the side of my torso, his face turned toward mine. I laid still.

“I’m not mocking, I’m asking.”

“Once I feel better, I’m going to get back into making art. I have an idea for once I’m better. Leah told me we should make a zine, and I’m supposed to pick up this canvas from the gallery—”

“Sounds like a good idea. How are you feeling anyway? You should really take your temperature.”

“I feel,” I said, stretching out the e’s, “like I’m going to die.” The sweat piled on my skin and crawled down my body like ants. “I feel like I could kill you. Or myself.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’s just a fever.”
“During a heatwave in New York City, with no AC. I very well might die, and you’re just here watching it.” I asked again, “Can you please just take care of me for once?”
“You keep saying for once as if I didn’t take care of you our whole relationship.”
“You didn’t.”
“You didn’t—”

I sat up faster than I had in days. We were closer than we had been in years. I could see each drop of sweat build on his furrowed brow and the freckle in his eye.

“No, you didn’t.” We went back and forth like we used to. My head suddenly filled with rage and emptied of the feverish feeling from before.

“Feeling better, I see?” His gaze met mine, and the air turned molasses. Habit drew my eyes to his lips. Habit told me it would be the easiest way to end it.

“No, you’re just here to upset me.” I sank back down into my sweat-soiled sheets. “If I felt better I wouldn’t be stuck here with you in bed.” I continued to sink past the sheets to the base of the mattress, shifting my weight to find a spot on the bed where I didn’t feel the frame underneath.

“Stuck is a strong word.” He rose and returned to flicking through my belongings.

“That’s how I always feel with you.”

“But I’m not really here, right? Isn’t that what you said?”

“I did. But if you’re going to be here, can you please, please just take care of me? Can you get the thermometer from the drawer? Can you refill my water bottle?”

“Why are all your mirrors turned over?” He pointed to my antique assortment on the wall and along my bureau.

“They’re prettier face down.” I’d look at them when I got better.


The sun hid behind the buildings across the street, casting a cooling shadow on the apartment. The heatwave broke into a storm outside. The leaves crawling up my apartment window rustled in the breeze, and the pitter-patter of rain began knocking against the pane.

“Are you sure it’s a fever? You look better already. It was just hot outside today. It’s getting later, and you should feel better by now. You always did more at night when we were together. You always felt better when the day was over.” He left a mirror overturned, reflection side up. “I’ll get your water.”

He turned and left to the kitchen, his silhouette disappearing into the darkened hallway. My eyes refocused on the ceiling, a blank and endless page of white. It overwhelmed the room. I took a deep breath and then another. I remembered to name the things I could hear and smell, taste, and touch. I closed my eyes tightly so the endlessness turned to the black of my eyelids. I waited for him to return.

“Did you get lost?” I called out. I hadn’t yet heard the drip of the faucet.

“Hello?” I called out again. I opened my eyes and turned my head to the side, directing my gaze to the water bottle on my bedside table. I lifted its metal body to find it still empty.

I swung my legs back over the side of the bed and heaved my body weight onto my hips again, catching a glimpse of myself in the right-side-up mirror. He was right; I looked better than I had thought. I put one foot in front of the other and walked myself to the kitchen. It was easier than I had remembered.