The diner

For the past 5 or so days, I have been sick.  I enjoy a work day away from the office every now and then, but I have a threshold, and yesterday, I took one look at the daytime talkshow blaring on the television, the piles of tissues, the used tea bags and my bulgy bathrobe, covering up a sweat shirt and flannel pants (it's cold here), and shot straight through that threshold over into if I don't get out of the house I'm going to kill myself kind of territory.  After he got home and saw my state, my sweet husband bundled me up, ushered me out into the cold, and took me to a warm, inviting little diner.  Just what I needed.  As we got settled and ordered drinks, I chuckled, and leaned over to H -- we were just about the only people in the restaurant under the age of 65 (the building the diner was snugly pushed under, we realized, must be a haven for retired folk). With my voice breaking between a whisper and a low, weak rumble, we didn't say much to each other the whole meal, and when we did, H had to ask a few times what I had said; I ordered the split pea soup with an egg sandwich and carefully crumbled the cracker packets into my dinner. Yes indeed.  We fit right in.  It was actually a very pleasant time.  And, who knows, maybe, 60 years from now, it'll be our daily routine.