Free Just Like Florence Nightingale by Sean Kennedy Page B

presented him with his tray.
     
    “Wow,
looks good.”
     
    “A
ringing endorsement if I’ve heard one.”
     
    “Here
comes the moment of truth though,” he laughed and sipped delicately from his
spoon.
     
    I
watched him, waiting for the spit-take. 
     
    “ Mmm ,” he murmured.  “It’s good.”
     
    “You
lie!”
     
    “No. 
Taste it yourself.”
     
    I
did.  It didn’t seem like it would poison me, but Dec was really making a
show of it, smacking his lips and sounding like that demented Skeksi from The Dark Crystal whenever he spotted a Gelfling .
     
    “Okay,
’fess up,” he said, laying aside his spoon for a moment.  “Fran or
Google?”
     
    “I’m
insulted.”
     
    “Okay,
it was Google.  You would be too cheap to call Fran internationally.”
     
    I
frowned and relented.  “Just don’t check your phone bill next month.”
     
    He
laughed as he picked up his spoon again.  “However long you talked, it’s
worth it.”
     
    “I
promised you soup, remember?”
     
    “Yeah,
but you threatened me with packet.”
     
    I
stared at him and said quietly, “You’re worth making soup from scratch.”
     
    “Simon,
you sap!”
     
    “Yeah,
well,” I grumbled. “I’m a sap for you, I admit it.”
     
    “I
like you when you’re sappy.”
     
    I
could see his eyes were growing heavy again.
     
    “It’s
a rare thing,” he murmured, his words slurring a bit.
     
    I
lifted the tray out of his hands.  “No, it’s not,” I said.  After
all, he had never seen me before he came into my life.  Obviously.  I
had never been like this before, with anyone.  People always said
when you really loved somebody, all bets were off and all things changed. 
I guess I was proof positive of that.  I was about to take the tray back
to the kitchen when he tugged on my leg.
     
    “Stay
here.”
     
    I
really wanted to clean the kitchen and get it out of the way, but lying there
with him was just too inviting.  I made sure I wasn’t touching his leg and
scooted in next to him.  He was still nuclear-warm, but the drugs were
obviously working as he looked more at peace.
     
    “Love
you,” I said, but he was asleep and didn’t hear me.  That was okay; he
knew it anyway.
     
    I
closed my eyes, feeling sleep beckoning me with the rhythmic lull of his breath
and the rise and fall of his chest.  Dishes could wait.  Dinner could
wait.
     
    Florence’s
work was never done.