It was 03:05 in the morning when George woke up. He immediately reached out to the night stand. To then realise he didn't know what he was looking for.
As he turned the light on, George found himself covered in sweat. Small drops running down his hair at the base of the neck, curving towards the collarbone, plunging down his chest.
George could not remember what kind of dream (nightmare?) elicited such a reaction in him. The room wasn't hot either. On the other hand, he suddenly felt cold. George got up, put a tee-shirt on and went in the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror looked uncharacteristically pale. A sense of nausea grabbed him. He had to sit on the edge of the bath.
George went rapidly through all the options. Food poisoning (nope, no dinner), drunk (after one beer? Give me a break), flu (I am not running a fever), a new fashionable disease (?). There was only one option left, George concluded, he had to be pregnant.
As he started to feel better, George climbed back in bed. His eyes heavy. A new desperate sense of need. To sleep. To let go. To stop being annoyed by that shadow at the edge of his field of vision.
Before he knew it, the alarm clock was shouting away. Nausea, again. George decided to call in sick.
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