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It starts with an annoying tickle in her throat. Jennie rubs the side of her neck uncomfortably, looking into the bathroom mirror. Of course, I'm getting sick, she thinks to herself. She coughs absentmindedly, a rattle present in her throat. She hasn't been sick in years and she kicks herself. Shouldn't have stayed out on the porch the other night. Now I've probably got pneumonia or something worse.
She sighs, adjusts the velvet lavender robe sitting lazily on her shoulders, and kills the light above the sink, sending the room into darkness, save for the bright moon outside. It shines eagerly through the curtainless window, making itself known. Letting everyone know how important it is to have the moonlight when everything else is so dark.
How nice it must be to be so relevant in the world.
The bedroom, however, is lit better, and Jennie can tell this as she walks out of the door to the bathroom, shutting it lightly and silently. It's become a habit to keep it closed when she's alone.
The dim glow of her bedside lamp illuminates the room nicely from where she stands. It drapes its warm glow over the bookshelf, the hickory dresser, the closet door... but she can still see shadows, twisting and forming her worst nightmares. Why does the glow remind her of how alone she is, how vulnerable? You're imagining things again. Snap out of it, Jennie.
She moves to sit on the edge of the bed, grabbing her lotion (it's Rosé's favorite scent) and squeezing the tube out on her leg. She sets it back down, too lazy to click the cap closed. The lotion feels cool and refreshing on her slightly sweaty body and she tries to relax into it. Suddenly, she's struck with a short cough and she recoils, putting her hand to her chest. Her throat feels dry and sore and her chest is aching.
Jennie is worried. She hardly ever gets sick and when she does, it's really bad. Being a writer who works from home, she does have more flexibility when she's sick, but she's already behind on her current novel and refuses to be even more behind with her schedule.
She wanders back into the bathroom, feeling around in the cabinet for a familiar bottle. Cough syrup. She's certain she can get rid of this pesky sickness by tomorrow. She downs some and leaves the bathroom, deciding to keep the rest on her bedside table, just in case her symptoms don't cease by the next day, though she's sure that they will.
Jennie looks over to the clock which reads 1:48. She briefly considers calling her wife to ask her if she's been feeling sick too. They saw each other less than a week ago and it's possible it spread. But she doesn't want to bother her so late.
Her wife, who is away on a business trip, might not appreciate being called anyways. She works hard and is probably already fast asleep. She doesn't need a phone call right now. Especially with the bad news of her spouse catching a slight cold. Speaking of.
Jennie coughs, louder and a bit harder than before. She tastes blood and winces. Still, it's certainly nothing to worry Rosé about. Jennie knows that she gets busy... of course, she knows. She's an important person and works harder than anybody else that Jennie has met. And she knows that she does her best to come home when she can. Even if it doesn't seem like enough.
