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Bob had been roaming the streets of New York City for a while now. June had just begun and he’d recently returned home from England, where the latest and last leg of his tour was held. The sun had gone down hours ago and the temperature was following in suit. In the city at this time of year, it could still drop to the mid to low 40s on the coldest of nights, and it certainly felt that way tonight. Yet, in true Dylan Style, Bob wasn’t wearing a coat that was heavy enough to protect him from the frigid wind.
Typically he’d be fine without bundling up all that much, but Bob hadn’t been feeling his best and the biting cold was getting to him more than usual. He would’ve stayed inside his apartment at the Chelsea Hotel, but the place felt oddly suffocating. He’d been feeling a little suffocated since the tour was about halfway over. It wasn’t the best experience he’d ever had, being booed and walked out on every single show. Every night was a night with little sleep and lots of chaos, and Bob just wanted to get home. Now that he was, he didn’t understand why he didn’t feel any better.
To try and get this feeling to go away, Bob had been trying to write nonstop for days. He barely moved from his typewriter for anything, even food. He’d get up for water, to go to the bathroom, to shower once every too many days, or to get more drugs--mostly amphetamines. Sometimes he’d grab a small snack on his way back to his chair, but he often forgot, as the amphetamines he was gobbling up like candy were completely obliterating his appetite.
In this overworked state, he’d barely been able to produce any ideas, lines, or concepts for at least a day now. If he did strike luck and have an idea, he’d just end up having great trouble putting it into words that he felt did his thoughts justice. Nothing was fucking working.
Again, typically he’d be fine with that and would leave a potential idea alone, so as not to overwork it, before returning to it with fresh eyes. But right now he felt like he desperately needed to finish something before immediately starting a new project, becoming wildly frustrated when he couldn’t even get one verse out.
Maybe it was too quiet, or the lighting wasn’t right, or the temperature wasn’t what he was used to. Something about his apartment was preventing him from getting anything done. That had to be what was going on. No other reason.
Craving escape late one night, Bob left his apartment on a whim and started walking nowhere in particular. He’d take a turn here and there to keep things interesting, but never did he have a destination in mind. Nor did he have a watch, leaving him with no way of judging how much time had passed.
He wandered aimlessly, fueled by a handful of chips and a cocktail of illicit substances. Part of him didn’t even know how he was still functioning at this point. His body was so sapped of energy, but each time it crossed his mind that he felt a little out of it, he’d simply guide his thoughts elsewhere. He was fine.
Really though, he’d been sniffling for the better part of two days. It had come to the point where he needed to keep a tissue box and a waste basket next to him as he was writing at his desk. He was also avoiding grass and cigarettes--for no reason at all! They were definitely not bothering his throat--and instead opting for whatever pills he could scrounge up. They were making him feel more out of it than usual, he found. That must’ve been what it was. The pills. This uncomfortable feeling also largely influenced his decision to take a walk, hoping that maybe the fresh air would do him some good.
Bob felt bitterly cold before he even stepped outside. The heating must’ve been broken in his apartment, he thought, that had to be why he was so chilled. It still didn’t take long for the brisk outside air to make his nose run, but Bob hadn’t thought to bring any tissues with him. His sleeves would have to suffice.
The Dexedrine that Bob had taken some hours before was putting some pep in his step, allowing him to cover a lot of area very quickly. He did end up walking for a long while, though. He was many miles away from his apartment after some undetermined, yet extensive, amount of time.
He didn’t regret it until he felt a few raindrops fall on him, and he looked up to notice the ominous clouds that were starting to loom over the city.
“Oh, fuck,” Bob said to himself.
The nearest street sign told him that he was at least a two-and-a-half-hour walk back to his apartment. Could he have been walking for that long? He really needed to find a clock.
Bob was snapped out of his thoughts by the pitter-patter of the now steady, heavy rainfall. He stepped under the awning of some Italian restaurant while he tried to figure out what he could do. Despite the downpour that was rapidly increasing in intensity around him, Bob couldn’t find himself wanting to get into a taxi.
Walking it was, then. But where?
Looking around hazily, Bob tried to get his bearings. His place was too far away, he’d already considered that. Fuck. There were some people he could think of that lived less than two and a half hours away by foot, but he’d rather make the long, arduous journey back to his apartment than interact with almost any of them.
Joan’s.
He could go to Joan’s.
But could he? Bob sighed. He and Joan had a sort of falling out before the latest leg of his tour. They went out to dinner with friends one night, and Bob had filled himself up on Beaujolais without having eaten anything the entire day. He was teasing Joan, mocking her about a multitude of things as they wined and dined—notably, her appearance. He never did know when to stop talking, proving it by taking things way too far as Joan tried her best not to cry in public. She eventually failed and ran out of the restaurant, one of their friends chasing after her while the other scolded Bob, made him cry too.
It was hard for him to come up with anything else that he regretted doing that much.
Despite all that, Joan had come with him for the first bit of the England tour. Their relationship continued on its downward spiral and she left, returning home to the States before the first half of the tour was completed.
They had barely spoken since then.
Thinking about everything that happened made Bob tear up. Joan meant the world and more to him. She was so special and so so kind. There was always an open invitation for him to show up at her door and stay for hours to write. She’d even feed him when he couldn’t bear to step away from his typewriter, too determined to finish a song. He thought she might be the most caring soul he’d ever met. But he’d gone and fucked it all up anyway.
He was getting angry with himself for being upset, for thinking he had the right to be hurt by choices he made; ones that had hurt Joan so. He wrote off his emotive state partly due to his extreme fatigue. After all, he couldn’t remember how many days it was now that he’d gone without sleep.
Maybe that was what was getting him all confused, he thought. He didn’t understand why he was feeling so disoriented in one of the places that he knew so well.
A rough cough bubbled up from Bob’s lungs and suddenly he felt drained. He had to go somewhere; anywhere. He just needed rest.
Joan’s it was.
Her place was still far, maybe an hour and a half, but it was better than the walk to the Chelsea. Plus, Joan would be there.
All Bob wanted was for Joan to comfort him. He missed the way that she ruffled her fingers through the ratty mop on his head that some might call hair, when she’d sit on his knee and press her warm body against his chest, how she’d lace their fingers together proudly and rub her thumb against his when he was nervous.
She was the ultimate comfort. Joan had looked after him when he wasn’t feeling his best before--more than a few times, actually. A sad smile turned up the corners of his mouth at the thought of it. He was craving her warmth, in more ways than one. He could only hope she’d think he deserved it.
Bob knew that in order to get to her he needed to start walking, but he hesitated to step into the rain. Once he did though, he was shocked and confused at how refreshing it was. He guessed he must’ve gotten warm from walking so much. He was sure that was why.
Only a few minutes passed before Bob was soaked to the bone, his clothes weighed down by the water they’d absorbed. Wiping his nose was useless with his wet garments so he resorted to sniffling. Naturally, he only sniffled more as he started sneezing. Not too much, just a handful of ‘em every few minutes, but it was still greatly annoying.
It didn’t take much time for Bob to start shivering, too. The rain had been a comfort for the first few minutes or so, but then his body started to remember how cold it was--just some degrees above the temperature that would’ve turned the rain into snow.
He kept walking.
He approached a street sign that crushed his hopes of arriving shortly. He was only halfway there.
Picking up the pace was hard. It had been much easier to walk quickly earlier when there were more amphetamines coursing through his veins. Bob cursed himself. He knew he should’ve popped another Dexedrine before leaving. He hadn’t though, and he was tiring out quickly. The lack of sleep was really catching up to him now, making his limbs feel just as sleepy and heavy as his brain.
A truck came roaring past him on the street, waking him up a bit. Bob shook out his hair and rubbed his eyes. He needed to keep moving.
The rain was pelting him now and it was getting harder and harder to push against it, no matter how much energy he tried to muster up.
Eventually, Bob realized he was almost there. For real this time. He felt as if a spark had reignited him, practically running until he was too out of breath to do anything but walk even slower than before. He did have to stop once as a batch of sneezes threw him against a wall with his hand plastered to it for support. His clothes were still wet and getting wetter but that didn’t stop Bob from trying to wipe his nose on his sleeves as best as he could.
He kept walking.
He could’ve cried as he staggered up to Joan’s door. Maybe he was crying, actually. The rain was falling too hard for him to tell.
His fist seared with pain from the rain and the cold as it made contact with the door. He was praying to God that Joan would answer. He didn’t know what time it was or if she was even home.
Bob’s hope started to drain away after a couple of minutes. He knocked once more as a last-ditch effort. No answer.
He turned to walk away--to head home, he supposed--now certain that he was crying, when he heard the door open behind him.
“Bob? Is that you?”
He swiveled back around and looked at her, dragging his hands across his eyes under the guise of swiping away the rain.
“Jesus Christ, what are you doing out there? It’s the middle of the fucking night! You’re drenched! God, Bob, are you insane?” Joan pulled him inside.
His heart broke a little. She’d always called him Bobby.
Bob wanted to answer her with words but the best he could offer was a cough.
“Take your shoes off,” Joan ordered.
Okay. He could do that. Bob leaned down to pull off one of his mud-slicked boots but quickly lost his balance. Joan grabbed his arms to stabilize him. He didn’t even have it in him to feel embarrassed as she took his shoes off for him.
Joan shook the water off her hands. “What’s going on with you? You look terrible.”
“Uh,” Bob had to clear his throat several times before he could get anything out. “I d’nno.”
His voice was layered with so much congestion he didn’t even sound like himself. It was then that he realized how much pressure there was in his head due to sniffling it all back for hours on end.
“Do you have a...can I blow my nose?”
Joan stood there staring at him, analyzing his figure for a second before she nodded.
“Let’s get you dried off first,” she said.
He shivered as Joan guided him further down the familiar halls of her apartment, toward the bathroom.
Bob felt out of place. He had spent so much time here but he felt like a stranger, a trespasser in it now. All of the faces in the photos and the posters on the wall seemed to be judging him, like they knew what he’d done, how he’d treated her. There were no longer smiles full of happiness and warmth, just hypercritical gazes.
“Bob, c’mon.”
At some point he must’ve stopped in the middle of the hallway, not realizing until Joan’s voice pulled him out of his trance. He wanted to hear her call him Bobby again, now realizing how much he had loved it. How it made him feel complete.
Once in the bathroom, they stripped off as much of Bob’s clothing as they could, leaving him in his t-shirt and boxer shorts.
The towels hanging on a rack next to the door were a soft pink, and they were cozy beyond all belief. Bob could’ve used one as a blanket--not that he hadn’t tried to in the past, drunken tomfoolery and all that. He remembered when they’d step out of the shower together and she’d hand one to him. They smelled like Joan, like her body wash. She used Limone, a natural vegetable soap with lemon essential oil. He could picture himself covering his hands with suds from the bar and sliding them along Joan’s delicate figure. He wanted to bury his face in one of the towels and keep it there forever, getting drunk off her scent.
Instead, he watched as Joan took one from the rack and dried off his hands. She set the towel down and placed a small box of tissues in front of him.
“Thank you,” Bob said quietly.
This time he was able to conjure up some embarrassment as he let out everything that had been building up in his sinuses since he’d left his apartment. It took him a few tries to be able to breathe through his nose again, and he still didn’t completely succeed once all was said and done.
A shiver ran down his spine as he washed his hands and basked in the comfort of warm water unfreezing his slender fingers.
Joan continued to dry him off, gently pressing the towel along his body. She had lifted his wet shirt off and thrown it onto the floor with the rest of his clothes, promising herself that she’d throw them in the wash later. She lightly placed her hand on Bob’s left cheek--feeling that he was unshaven--and ran a towel through his hair.
“You’re hot,” she remarked, sounding a little worried.
Bob chuckled, “Awe, c’mon, Joanie. I’m too tired for that right now.”
“It’s cold as hell out there. How can you be...”
Bob didn’t really know what she was talking about.
He turned slightly and almost laughed upon seeing himself in the mirror. Joan had been right earlier, he did look terrible. He could’ve sworn he was staring at an alien instead of his own reflection. How could he look this awful and not feel even worse? Shit, Bob realized, he might.
As he gazed into the mirror, he watched his nostrils flare before even realizing that he was going to sneeze. He made a desperate grab for the tissues, holding a bundle to his nose as a trio of sneezes jerked his body forward. A gentle hand on his back steadied him. He flinched from how cold it was on his bare skin.
“Bless you,” Joan said.
“Thanks.” Bob sniffled against the tissues.
Joan looked him up and down again, as she’d done in the doorway. “You’re sick,” she deduced.
That made sense looking back on it, Bob thought. He realized that his primary theory, that the drugs were just hitting him differently, wasn’t as sound as the one Joan had just proposed. Bob guessed he was just so busy submerging himself in writing that he hadn’t really noticed. Or maybe he had noticed and didn’t want to confront it, solving the problem by pushing it down and ignoring it. He couldn’t tell. (It was the latter option).
“Yes,” Bob said. “I agree.”
Concern flooded her bleary eyes, shaking the sleep out of them.
“Why were you out in the rain, Bob? How long were you out there? It’s almost freezing outside! I can’t imagine how much sicker you’ve made yourself!” Joan’s tone became much harsher than it had been moments before.
Oh. She sounded angry.
“You’re angry?”
Best to be sure.
Joan sighed and put her hands against her temples. “I just don’t understand you,” she said.
Oh. Bob was pretty sure she was also angry.
“You didn’t answer my question,” he prodded shyly.
It took everything Joan had in her not to sigh again. To be truthful, she was a little angry. Who did Bobby think he was, treating her like shit and then showing up on her doorstep at four in the morning, sick as a dog. Not to mention soaking wet, dripping water all through her apartment.
What hurt more than anything was how happy it made her that he had come to her in a time of need. He still thought of her as a source of comfort, which was what she always wanted to be for him. He looked so pitiful too, she couldn’t help but want to scoop him up in her arms and carry him off to bed.
“You didn’t answer mine,” she countered.
“You asked me a question?”
Joan nodded. “I asked you two.”
Bob shifted against the bathroom counter and blew his nose again. He asked, “What did you--what were they?”
“Why were you out in the rain?” she repeated herself.
“I don’t know,” was Bob’s official answer. “It made sense when I left but I...I don’t really remember now, honestly. But, I don’t think it was raining when I left...right? No, no, it wasn’t.”
It was time for her second question. “How long were you out there?”
Bob sniffled while he thought for a moment, rubbing his jaw, too. “Uhhh. I think I left a bit before midnight. Maybe 11:45 or somethin’,” he said. Joan’s jaw fell open. “What? What time's it now?”
“Fucking Christ, Bob, it’s almost half past four! What on Earth possessed you to do that? Why didn’t you take a fucking cab?”
“You’re angry,” Bob said.
Joan ran her hands through her hair. “I’m not angry!” She was pissed. “Why would you do that?”
Bob shrugged, not at all registering the slightly distraught tone that Joan’s voice had taken on. He turned to the side and sneezed twice, into his elbow. “I already, snnf, y’know, I answered that question. I told you, I said I don’t know. You didn’t answer my question, it’s my turn to do that, to ask you a question now,” he said.
“Go for it.”
Bob opened his mouth but no words came out. He looked confused. “I...hey, what was my question? What did I ask you?”
Joan would’ve responded, but Bob was promptly doubled over by a coughing fit. She stood there and watched as it happened, mirroring Bob’s wince when it was over.
Both of them noticed how Joan remained stationary. Both of them missed how only a few short weeks ago she would’ve dropped everything and ran over in a heartbeat to help him through it.
An uncomfortable silence fell between them and Bob found himself blinking back tears. How could he have fucked things up so badly? Why would he do that?
All of a sudden, a hot wave of guilt rushed over him. He shouldn’t have come here. Joan must’ve been furious. Everything was his fault.
Bob rubbed his eyes and prepared himself to tell Joan he’d leave.
“Gee, Bob, you're shaking,” Joan said softly. “You want to take a shower? Some hot water’ll do you good, warm you up. Clear you out, too.”
Bob couldn’t speak. He just wanted her to call him Bobby again. He couldn’t take her alienating herself from him like that. It was such a small thing but it had been so intimate. She called him Bobby in a way no one else did; it didn’t sound the same coming from anyone else.
“Bob?”
“Hm?”
He was so out of it, it felt like he was only half there. Concern was gnawing at Joan’s stomach.
“Let’s get you into the shower,” she said.
He tried to cough so he’d have more time to answer. She was just being nice, he thought. She didn’t really want him to be there any longer, let alone use her shower.
“I-I can go,” he offered. “I should--I’m gonna go. I’ll just, I’ll walk home.”
Bob took a step toward the door, but Joan placed a hand on his chest, planting him in place. He tried to protest, but didn’t even have time to tell Joan to move her hand before twisting his body as far away as he could, then catching two harsh sneezes in his elbow.
“Bless you,” Joan said.
Bob shook his head before putting it back down and sneezing three more times. These ones had less force behind them, Joan thought. They sounded tired.
“There’s no chance in hell I’m letting you walk out the front door.”
This time Bob wanted to answer, but a cough swept him up anyway. God, he felt like his face was glued to his elbow.
“I should go,” he said. His voice was wrecked. Joan knew it would be gone soon if he spoke too much.
“What part of I’m not letting you leave don’t you understand?” Joan pushed harder, sounding more authoritative with every word.
Bob looked troubled. Conflicted. Joan knew that all he wanted was to stay, but she also knew that everything in him was telling him he shouldn’t have stepped foot inside her apartment.
She tried to appease him, “Just...take a shower and then we’ll talk, okay?”
“Okay.” Bob nodded.
“Okay, good.” Joan reached for another towel. “I’m gonna stay in here, alright? You’re already warm and I don’t want the hot water to make you sicker.”
Whenever she’d taken care of him in the past she’d always either stayed in the bathroom while he showered or taken the shower with him. Drugs and fever never mixed well and certainly neither of them helped with balance.
Bob groaned. “Fuckin’...cold rain makin’ me sicker, hot shower makin’ me sicker. Shit, man, can’t do fuckin’ nothin’ around here.”
A small smile cracked Joan’s lips. There was her Bobby.
She got the shower running and turned away once it was warm enough so Bob could remove his boxers and step in. He shuddered as the hot water hit him. It was everything he needed.
The shower helped and it hurt. Bob was finally feeling warm again, but the heat and stuffiness of the shower were increasing his temperature. The steam was helping him get the gunk out of his sinuses and his lungs, but it did so by making him cough and sneeze even more. Joan watched through the curtain to see him sit on the floor of the shower and let a sneezing fit take him over completely.
More than anything, Joan wanted to just get in there and hold him. That’s what she used to do when he was sick and they showered together--take him in her arms and support him. It killed her that they were both there but he was sitting alone.
He stayed down there, just letting the water hit him in the face, even after he’d finished.
“You okay, Bob?”
“Yeah, just...I’m a little--I don’t want to stand up right now, it’s gettin’ me all dizzy. I just need a break. I need to just sit for a second,” he said.
This was exactly why Joan had stayed. “Let’s get you out of there, okay?”
“I can’t get--just, Joan, let me just sit for a second,” Bob fumbled over his words a little, shaking his head to himself as if that would help them come out right.
He was getting too overheated. Joan stood and made the water cooler.
“Hey! What are you-? What the fuck, Joan? Stop that! It's so fucking cold! Change it back!”
He reached for control of the handle and Joan worried she’d have to wrestle him out. He wasn’t going to let go of the warmth until he was made to. Joan knew from experience that when Bob was sick he was usually freezing for the majority of it. He’d never let go of her until he was feeling better, desperate to feed off her heat, even under the scalding hot water from the shower head.
“C’mon, I’ll get you under all sorts of blankets.”
Bob nodded. He stood slowly, having to grab onto the soap dish to hoist himself up. There it was: Limone.
“I’ll close my eyes, okay? Just come to me.”
“Huh? Okay.”
Joan did so and held a towel out across her full wingspan. She heard the shower turn off and soon after that she felt Bob’s warm body walk into the towel. She wrapped it around him and opened her eyes once he was secure.
Only a few inches separated their faces. Bob stared at her as her lids separated. He maintained eye contact and sniffled thickly. As tired and sick as he was, he still looked beautiful.
There were no words that Joan could come up with to describe the wonders that were Bob’s eyes, how enchanting they were--even bloodshot and droopy like they were now. They were a marvel to see up close, and she had missed them.
“Hey,” Bob rasped.
Joan could barely breathe. “Hey.”
The intensity, the longing in Bob’s eyes told her that he was going in for a kiss, and she was going to let him. She waited, watched him get closer.
Bob’s lips were mere centimeters away from Joan’s when the universe decided that this wasn’t their fate. An intense tickle sprang up from the back of his nose so quickly that he didn’t have time to turn. He leaned down and sneezed between them, into his towel-clad hands.
The sneeze brought them both back to reality, and it was colder and harsher than ever.
Joan took a step back, leaving Bob sniffling against his wrist. She could tell he didn’t want to look at her.
They were quiet for a minute.
Both of them finally decided it was time to say something, overlapping one another’s words:
“I’m sorry, Joan-”
“Bless you. Oh-”
Silence came again. Joan let Bob take the lead this time.
He sighed, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He still couldn’t look at her. Joan didn’t want him to feel so badly about himself that he’d run off into the stormy night. Plus, she wouldn’t have let him get that close if she hadn’t wanted to kiss him. This wasn’t only on Bob. “Done what? Sneezed?” She joked.
A small smile tugged at Bob’s lips.
“You know what I mean-”
“It’s alright, Bob, really,” Joan said. “Towel yourself off and then let’s get you into some dry clothes.”
She didn’t give Bob time to argue before walking out the door and entering her bedroom. Of course she had some of Bob’s clothing at her place. Considering how many of his garments were in her dresser, Joan was surprised he had any left at home.
She picked some out and placed them on the corner of her bed. Once she closed her dresser drawers she turned, jumping a little as she saw Bob standing in her room. She hadn’t heard him come in.
“Hey,” he said.
Joan smiled. “Hey.”
“Sooo...I’m naked under the towel,” Bob said.
“Oh, right! Okay, I’ll wait in the hall.”
Bob was half hoping she’d tell him she’d stay. Oh well, he was already lucky enough to even be here.
The sound of Joan’s bedroom door closing pulled Bob from his thoughts. He locked the door, then pulled on the clothes and noticed how he was practically swimming in them. He must’ve lost weight during the tour. A decent amount. He sat down on Joan’s bed, next to her nightstand, completely forgetting that he had to let Joan back in. It was so comfortable. He leaned back to lie down just for a moment, just to see how it felt--even though he’d spent countless nights on it--but it was too comfortable to get back up.
Several minutes had passed and Joan was a little worried. She thought she hadn’t heard any bangs, thuds, or crashes, but she was sure it was still possible for Bob to have passed out or something similar. With a shaky hand, she reached out and rattled the doorknob. Still locked.
“Bob?”
No answer.
“Bob?” She asked, louder this time.
No answer.
“Hey, are you done?”
No answer.
Joan was starting to panic. What if he’d hit his head? She raised her voice, “BOB!”
Now she heard a thud.
On the other side of the door, Bob had dozed off for a moment. He was startled out of his sleep by the sound of Joan yelling his name. The thud that Joan had heard was Bob’s hand smacking the bed frame as he shot up.
“Fuckin’ shit!” Joan heard Bob speaking and took a deep breath. “Hang on.”
The floor creaked as Bob stepped across it. He unlocked the door and had to take a step back as Joan practically threw the door open.
Once she verified that he was completely okay, she relaxed.
Bob stepped back from the doorway and approached a tissue box on the nightstand. He plucked a few out but held them in his hand for a moment instead of using them right away.
“Do you need anything-”
“Hahhng on-” Bob interrupted her. He pressed the tissues to his face and sneezed.
“Bless you,” Joan said.
“Thanks, snnf, ugh.” Bob folded the tissues and blew his nose. Before he could remove them from his face, Bob was forced back down into them, sneezing again. He used the little dry area that remained to wipe his nose. Once he was done with that, he picked up a few more and blew his nose again.
Joan watched it tire him out. He didn’t seem to have much left in him.
“Here, get under the covers and I’ll get you some water. You must be thirsty after all that walking,” Joan said.
Bob didn’t move.
“Come on.”
“I should head out,” Bob said.
Joan was hoping he would’ve forgotten about that after he showered.
“Bob, you’re not going anywhere.” She stood in front of him and gave him a stern look.
God, Bob was so fucking tired of hearing her call him that. It was like every two fucking seconds she’d refer to him with it, as if he wasn’t the only other person there. If she had to address him, why couldn’t she just do it like she used to?
To him, if she was calling him Bob instead of Bobby it meant that she was still pissed at him. If she was still pissed at him, he didn’t feel comfortable being there.
Joan could tell he stiffened every time she said his name, but she couldn’t figure out why.
“I should head out,” Bob repeated himself.
“Just get under the covers and let me take care of you, damnit! It’s five in the morning, you’ve got a raging cold, and you just walked for four hours in freezing weather, under pouring rain for God knows how long! You’re not leaving!”
Bob stayed quiet.
“You had me scared out of my mind when I opened the door and saw you standing there, you know that? I couldn’t even leave you alone to shower! How could you think I’m going to let you walk out back into the rain? Christ, Bobby, just let me worry about you!”
Bob felt like everything was melting around him. Despite the fact that it came out as she was yelling at him, there it was. He was her Bobby.
“I swear to God, don’t make me-”
“Okay,” Bob said. He coughed briefly. “I’ll stay.”
Joan gestured to the bed and Bob crawled in. As she left the room, Bob took the opportunity to blow his nose as much as he could. Joan returned with a glass of water, as she’d promised. She handed it to him and he knocked the whole thing back, now realizing how dehydrated he was.
“There you go,” Joan said. She rubbed his shoulder and took the glass once he was finished.
After getting in bed next to him, Joan placed a kiss on Bob’s cheek. He shuddered at the light touch.
“Come here,” Joan said, and pulled Bob into a hug. He quickly pulled away to cough.
“I’m gonna, snnf, I’ll get you sick, Joan. I don’t want that,” Bob said.
Joan knew that wasn’t the real reason that Bob was holding himself back from her embrace. For years now, almost every single cold one of them caught they’d pass it on to the other. Still, Joan didn’t want to press him. She was worried that if she did, Bob would slip out her door the second she fell asleep.
Instead, she just nodded. “Okay.”
They sat next to each other, not talking but also not lying down to sleep. Joan listened to Bob cough and sniffle and sneeze and blow his nose for a few minutes until he said something.
“I feel bad, I pulled you from your sleep and now you probably won't be able to get back to it, with me coughing n’ all that other stuff.”
“Don’t feel bad,” Joan said. “I slept for hours before you got here. You seem like you haven’t slept in days.”
Bob didn’t know how to respond because he knew that Joan was right.
He laid down and did his best to try and fall asleep, but he’d gotten chilly again. He did his best to ignore it, not only for his sake but for Joan’s. She had done so much for him already.
Despite his efforts, Joan noticed after a few minutes. Her voice was already laced with sleep again, “Bobby, you’re trembling.”
“Uhhh. No. I don’t think so.”
Joan went to get up, but Bob placed his arm on hers.
“Wait! Joan, you don’t need to do anything else for me, okay? You, you didn’t need to do all this for me, I don’t deserve any of it.” Bob tried not to sound hurt. “Go back to sleep, alright? I’m okay.”
“You do deserve it. You deserve another blanket, too.”
If Bob had any energy left in him, he would’ve thrown Joan down on the bed and kissed her, using her body heat to warm himself up instead of some stupid blanket. But he didn’t, so he had no choice but to let her go.
Unlike seconds before, he was glad Joan had stepped out of the room. In the short while that she was gone, he sneezed somewhere around six times, losing count after a few. Thankfully, Bob thought, Joan didn’t seem to hear him from the hall. (She had--the walls were thin. She just didn’t care to make him think he was disturbing her).
She came back with a few blankets and layered them over Bob’s quivering frame.
“Better?”
“Ahem, yeah, yeah. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
They attempted sleep again. This time, Bob being the one who broke the silence.
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“Am I sure what’s okay?”
“Y’know...that I’m here.”
Joan’s felt like her heart had been ripped out of her chest and stomped on a million times. She saw the tears in Bob’s eyes and heard the waver in his voice. He seemed to still be worried that she was just too kind to send him away, that she didn’t really want him there. After all, Bob would’ve sent himself away if he were Joan.
“Of course it is, Bobby.” Joan rubbed Bob’s shoulder. She smiled as he finally let himself be consoled by her touch. She put her head against his chest. “Go to sleep.”