Rob returned with some fresh croissants from the bakery up the road, and the following mornings, he continued with his daily visits, and each day, I felt more and more like a sick patient at the hospital. He came armed with breakfast food and the morning paper; the food was for me, and the paper for him.
On Wednesday, he brought me a blueberry bagel, but on Thursday, he opened the paper bag from the previous day, shaking his head at the bagel still inside. He ate it himself and commented, “I guess I’ll eat this muffin too.” He sat down on the bench and opened the paper. “What do you want to do today?” he asked from behind the front page.
“Same thing as yesterday…same thing as Tuesday…same thing as Monday,” I returned, sitting up in bed and completely absorbed with the lint between my toes. I extracted a fuzzy pink remnant from my five-day-old socks and dropped it to the floor.
Noisily, Rob folded the paper and placed it next to him. “How long are you going to stay holed up in your room?”
I turned toward him with a pronounced pout. “I’m too sick to go anywhere, Rob.” I offered a fake cough.
“I can’t believe your mom buys that crap.”
“Why? I’m a very good liar,” I returned boastfully.
He lifted up the paper again, hiding his expression. “Yeah, it’s such an admirable quality of yours.” At that, I stuck out my tongue at him, yet it went unnoticed. He was too preoccupied with the world news.