The Somnolent D.O.

I've been sick, man. All kinds of sick. A sinus infection that sprinkled bits of jagged metal down my throat; an earache that's been leaking this clear substance, a headache of viselike proportions, and, to top it all off, some epic gas. It must be January, the month during which I always seem to fall apart.

So the other night I was lying in bed, trying not to choke on my own drainage, afraid to swallow for fear of the pain in my throat, slowly, with as much patience as I could stand, letting the clouds of my sweet noxious gas fill the night air. My fever was spiking and I'd thrown the blankets off to keep myself from sweating. In all respects I was a miserable man.

Then my sleeping wife, with a kind of sigh, sat up from her side of the bed, leaned across me (in the process penetrating the meaty center of my gas cloud), and threw the covers over my body. Then she tucked the bedspread tightly on either side of me, put her hand on my chest, murmured something unintelligible, and rolled back onto her side, all without waking up!

Yes, I was give the dutch oven by my wife, in her sleep. There was something so sweet about that, something so comforting, that I soon feel asleep myself.