“Okay.” She frowns, brows creased. “I could call my uncle Vinny and see if he can find any TP.”
“Oh hell no. Definitely not.” The man is a sneaky, conniving, underworld, crime lord. The less we have to do with him the better.
With that settled, we make love all day, stopping only for another pizza delivery. Petey has the best pie in all the five boroughs. However, by Wednesday, I’m thinking we may need a few fruit and veggies besides those found in his sauce.
Sam, after trying a half dozen sites, gives up with online ordering and asks her cousins Rose and Mia, to shop for us. Then, like she has every day since I got fired, my sweet wife sticks a thermometer in my mouth.
This time, when it beeps, she pulls it out and pales. “Oh shit.”
Chapter Four
Sam
“Let me see that.” Suds grabs my hand, puts it to his nose, and peers at the gray numbers in the small plastic window.
“It says one-oh-one.” Crossing my arms, I glare at the denial, written all over his face.
“Well, it don’t mean I got the plague.” He pushes away my hand resting on his warm forehead.
What the fuck?“You are sick. End of conversation.”
“It could just be the regular flu. The plain vanilla kind.” Pacing like a caged tiger, he finds the remote, points, and clicks on CNN.
“Or, it might be the coronavirus. Please, honey, would you rest?” For a moment, I imagine him on a ventilator and shudder.
“I just got up.” Muttering, my husband crosses his muscled arms and I give him the look wives have used since the dawn of time.
I learned it from my mom but it’s probably built into our DNA, a survival instinct. It roughly translates to, do as I say, or sex is off the table.
Sebastian, a smart man, parks his ass down on the couch. “Maybe I’ll just set a spell. Cat? Move on over.”
Our yellow tabby blinks, yawns, and curls up in a corner. With them situated, I run upstairs, grab a pillow and blanket, and toss them over the railing.
“Catch.” Once I’m back downstairs, I open our empty refrigerator. “Want me to order something from Pete’s?”
“To be truthful, I’m a mite sick of Italian, no insult intended.”
“None taken.” I freak.
Suds has never said no to fast food of any kind. “How about calzones with peppers and onions. C’mon. You should eat some veggies.”
Loss of appetite is reportedly, a new virus symptom but he just chuckles. “That’s a hard pass. I’m waiting for real groceries.”
While he channel surfs, I search the web for local testing sites and moan. Our neighborhood won’t have one for at least a week. How did Darleen get tested right away? Huh? Cursing at the unfairness, I check my own temperature, and wonder how long before I’m laid low. The more I read about the virus, the more confused I am. One thing is certain. It’s more deadly for old people or those with health conditions. Neither me nor Suds fall into those categories but still, it could get f-ugly. Nibbling on my lower lip, my stomach churns as I scour the internet for more facts.
A few minutes later, he swivels on the futon, catches my eye, and pats the cushion beside him. “C’mere and stop frettin’.”
“I’m not fretting. I’m researching. It’s entirely different.” I’m saved from having to defend my position when Rose rings the smart-bell and waves at the security camera.
“Yo! Buzz me in.” Her wire basket overflows with supplies.
“I’ll be right down.” At the top of the stairs, I shout, “Leave everything. I’ll Venmo you the money, okay?”
“Yeah, that works. Receipts in the bag. How’s Suds?” She wheels through the door and piles plastic bags on the floor.
“He has a fever. Pleeeease, don’t tell anyone.” If my family finds out he’s sick, there’ll be no end to the phone calls and relatives dropping by.
My cousin frowns as she grabs the last of my groceries from the cart. “Mom says people are lining up outside the emergency rooms. If you’re going, be prepared to wait.”
