However, when I pull the bag out, I’m frustrated to realize they’ve sent me the wrong thing—it’s not his typical dog food but the same brand’s cat food. They must’ve mixed up the packaging.
I hop onto the app to try and initiate a return. They agree to send me a new bag, but when I ask for a return label I’m informed the food is too heavy to make it worth sending back.
So, what, I’m just supposed to throw away a perfectly good bag of food?
I try to think of who I know who has a cat. And of course, the obvious answer sticks out right in front of me: Eli.
In the week and a half since our roof debacle, I haven’t seen him. It’s not unusual—our building does only have one elevator, but I’m not exactly constantly going in and out. And while I realize I actually still have no idea what Eli does for work beyond Tom vaguely saying he’s a writer, he doesn’t seem to be on a nine-to-five routine the way I and a few other people in the building are. And without a dog, he’s also not on that particular schedule either.
But since we left things off on a positive note, there’s no reason to not bring him some cat food, right? Maybe that would be nice, actually.
I grab the bag and walk down the stairs. When I get in front of his door, I knock and then wait. I hear some shuffling inside, but it’s slow and muted.
When the door finally opens, it’s clear what’s taken him so long. Eli looks terrible. His nose is red and raw from a cold. His hair is mussed and looks pressed to the side, as though he’s haphazardly slept on it. His face, usually so smooth, is covered in patchy stubble. He’s swaddled in the coziest-looking sweater, hood up, as though it’s a barrier to the outside world.
“Are you ... okay?” I ask, trying to not be completely obvious that I think he’s looking worse for wear.
“Hey, Nora,” he says, a little confusion in his scratchy voice, but mostly tiredness. “Oh yeah, I’m fine. What’s up?”
I give him another look up and down. “You’re clearly not fine.” I hold up the bag of cat food. “I accidentally got shipped this cat food, so I thought I’d bring it to you—”
“Oh thanks—”
“But seriously, what’s happening to you?”
He reaches out for the cat food, as though that’s going to solve everything, but I hold it back. Maybe it’s not nice to offer something and then withhold it, but I’m getting the sense that if I don’t insist on an answer, he’s just going to crawl back into his man cave and let illness overtake him.
“It’s just a cold,” he says, his voice so depleted that it comes out almost like a sad sigh rather than a statement.
“It looks like a lot more than a cold,” I respond, the biggest understatement ever. “Do you have any medicine, at least? Have you been to see a doctor?”
I can’t help it; I reach out to feel his forehead. He leans into the touch, as though it’s the most soothing comfort he can find. I would feel sorry for him except that I’m more alarmed by how much he’s burning up.
“Have you taken anything for your fever?”
“It’s just a cold,” he repeats. “I’ve been on my laptop doing work all day; I’m fine.” I can’t help but roll my eyes. I’ve seen a lot of men with the opposite reaction to man flu—usually a lot of whining over a fever that barely breaks ninety-nine degrees. But this is stubbornness of a different kind.
“You can’t just say you’re not sick and have it be so.”
“Well, I got a lot done today, so I’ll sleep it off and be better tomorrow,” he says with effort.
“You should’ve been asleep already if you’re feeling this sick,” I respond.
“Well ...” At this he looks away from me and shuffles a bit, like a little boy caught in a fib. “I tried earlier, but it’s been hard to get comfortable,” he admits. “It was easier to just try and focus on work instead. But I’ll fall asleep eventually. This isn’t a big deal.”
I’m not even sure he believes himself with that tale. He can’t go on like this.
“I’m coming in,” I say, mind made up.
I push past him and set the cat food on the counter. His apartment is a bit of a mess, and I somehow get the immediate impression this is not the way this space typically looks. The bookshelves and desk are organized and methodical—I’d guess that’s the regular state of affairs. But the sink and countertop have abandoned mugs and half-eaten plates of toast strewed around. The lights are all dim, and every cabinet seems to be in some version of ajar. The couch is covered in cushions and blankets, but his laptop and phone are sitting open, as though the evidence of technology at hand might drown out the rest of the mess surrounding him.
Two cats wander into the room, and I can’t help but smile when I see them. There reallyisno way to describe them other than “floofy.” They look as though two delicate, dainty white kittens got their paws stuck in an electrical socket, and it immediately made them puff out. I reach down to give them a pet, and one of them leans into my hand the way Eli did earlier when I touched his forehead.
I turn around to see Eli staring at me, unsure. I can’t tell if he desperately wants me to get out or if he’s one step from begging me to stay. I imagine it’s some mental tug-of-war over both.
I walk into his bathroom and open the cabinets. Totally bare except a spare toothbrush and a few travel soaps.
“Do you have any cold medicine?” I ask, turning around to him again.
