B caught a bug, resulting in a nightmarish tumult at various stops along the alimentary canal. Maybe some kind of food poisoning, maybe just one of the countless virulent agents nature supplies for the purpose of ruining my evening. From pillow talk to violent heaving in just minutes, from intimate murmuring to the hoarse exhalation of familiar ingredients. Vomiting is like the climax of a magic trick in which it's finally revealed, to a smattering of applause, where dinner disappeared to. Partially digested food is the rabbit and your gaping mouth is the top hat. B's thoughtless moaning and constant dashes for the bathroom became an irritating distraction so I got out of bed and went downstairs. His agony was regrettable but also a little tiresome, even ponderous. He followed me downstairs. People want witnesses to their suffering, it's only natural. In my best soothing concern/dirty phone call voice I explained that if one of us had to be sick I was glad it was him and not me, since I really hate being sick, and that if I had the power to take his pains upon myself I wouldn't, but that briefly considering the possibility would make me feel good about myself regardless. He lay on the sofa hugging himself, writhing like a mental patient struggling to escape a straitjacket, whispering his sorrowful lamentations of the gut in the manner of religious ecstasies. A little too intimate for the light of morning if you ask me. Dawn, what a strange time to be getting out of bed. I wondered where I could get coffee. A pastry would be nice.