Thank God some furniture had already been delivered, or I would have been collapsed on the floor instead of in my brand new bed. The whole fall had gone dismally for me, and now Christmas was approaching and there was no woman in my life, just an occasional date now and then with women with whom I didn’t seem to click. I was out of Lou’s house and into my home at last, but there I was alone, miserable, and then sick. I lay there in my nice new bed, the beautiful antique bed from a classy shop on Melrose, and tried to look out the windows, which were bare. My eyes wouldn’t focus. Birds were chirping outside the window, but my ears were so clogged they sounded like singing being transmitted from the bottom of a well. I felt like I too was buried at the bottom of a well. It didn’t matter how in shape I was or how healthy. The flu is an equal-opportunity virus, and it had taken residence inside of me for what seemed like eternity. I could hardly stagger to the bathroom, and going downstairs to the kitchen was a near impossibility.
