I’ve received some arresting emails about Nina’s condition. Some suggest she’s pregnant. The first notes came from American women, who worry that I am a dimwit. This may scare them because they come here for advice.
How would I know if Nina’s breasts are tender? The question pains me.
Several women who sound like Europeans and another from Hong Kong were more critical of Nina but reached the same conclusion. I googled and googled and came up with nothing more definite than general symptoms: Headaches, fatigue, fever, grouchiness, stomach upset, a sudden aversion to coffee, and a reluctance to communicate with the man who might have caused it.
I can’t believe she could be pregnant. It’s the worst condition one can acquire in a pandemic. I’ve never impregnated anyone. This is unthinkable.
She could have bird flu. Or several hundred other serious conditions. I was betting on hay fever but I think I lost.
Your humble profiteer thus spent his morning sneezing on an old futon coated with cat hair amid piles of boxes in the living room. At least Nina wasn’t typing nearby. She didn’t log in until her bank called late in the morning. I’d like to think she was being considerate about my sleeping near her iMac, but I think she was too sick to get up.
I’m quarantined within a quarantine. My home shrinks by the day. Am I living an Edgar Allan Poe story? I await the pendulum.
Nina looks feverish. That room smells bad. I tried to think of ways to slip a thermometer into her. Thank you for your thoughts and wishes.