George admitted that being ill was one of the few occasions when he missed living with someone. His stomach was curled up for maximum compacteness, his temples drenched with sweat, his legs weak and unsteady. At least his medicine cabinet was well stocked all the time. George avoided going to the doctor's as much as possible, and preferred self-medicating. Having medics in the family helped with the prescriptions.
George thought that he could have called her. She would have most certainly gone to see him and looked after him. But George did not want to be seen like that. Being unwell is personal. It takes a lot of sharing to get to that level of intimacy. And he could hear himself whining in his head.. A winging man is never a good look. Not very sexy, no. George buried is head back under the pillow and pretended the phone wasn't ringing.
George tried to float away towards pleasant memories to ignore the pain in his abdomen. The pebbles thrown in the sea when he was a kid at his parents' summer home. He could see his hand rummaging through the shore, selecting the flattest, most elastic ones, weighting them through his fingers. Stepping back, aiming, his right arm describing a horizontal emi-circumference. The pebble bouncing once, twice, three times, four times! His mate Ryan admiring his technique - never able to repeat it. His father slapping him on the back of his head for almost hitting a German tourist.. No, that wasn't a memory, that was a throbbing headache grabbing him back to present days.
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