One Sunday morning I sat up in bed. I felt fluid in my nose, as if I had an allergy or a cold or something. I snuffled, and looked across the room for the Kleenex box, but it wasn't on the bureau, I must have taken it into the bathroom. I put my hand up to my face and felt warm stickiness. I looked at my fingers. Blood. Which dripped and made big, bright red splotches on the front of my white flannel nightgown.
I nudged Mike, hard. He grunted. I nudged him again. "Mike!" I said. He turned, frowned, blinked. Then he rose up on his elbow, mouth open, eyes wide. "Get me a towel," I told him.
Mike didn't move, he just stared. "Mike, for Christ's sake get me a towel, okay?," I said. "I'd get it myself but I don't want to bleed all over the rug."
Finally he climbed out of bed. It annoyed me how he froze up at the slightest thing. So damned sensitive. What in hell would he do if something really bad happened?
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