I detest the flu. Loathe its very existence. I even had the flu shot, but alas, Friday night, what I thought was one of my hot fantasies climbing into bed with me, turned out to be Mr. Flu. He wrapped his claw-like hands around my naked, feverish body, squeezed my intestines with his vice grip, and settled in for an agonizing eight hours of night sweats not of the erotic ilk. In the morning he was still hanging around.
Friday night could have been so different. I met Mr. Gorgeous in aisle five at the supermarket while reaching up to snag a box of Mango Mochi from the top shelf of the freezer. “Let me get that for you,” a husky voice purred from behind. I saw a large, muscular, arm reach over my head and lift not one but two packets of that delicious creamy taste treat from the shelf. “They’re the best, aren’t they?” I imagined honeyed bourbon on his lips.
Mr. Gorgeous and I flirted briefly in front of the open freezer door, and just when I thought we were closing in on a number exchange, in came Mr. Flu, making his first appearance. “Ooh, it’s cold in here,” I said, my voice quivering, my body flushed with sudden heat. There was an uncomfortable moment where neither of us knew what to say or do next. After all, there was a third wheel with us now. Damn that Mr. Flu!
Mr. Gorgeous did get my number, and he did call. Sadly, I was still sharing my bed with Mr. Flu, however, it is now Tuesday, and although not entirely recovered, last night Mr. Gorgeous, or at least the fantasy of him, did climb into my bed.