Helluva cold that was. It hit out of the blue–don’t they always–and rapidly whipped through the usual litany of symptoms, finishing up it’s business yesterday. I cursed my healthy immune system–that’s all the symptoms of a cold are, really, your immune system getting hysterical–and watched a lot of old movies. Some channel was showing a string of film noir, which was perfect, and even more perfect was the sticky southern gothic perfection of A Streetcar Named Desire, me crumpled on the floor, sneezing, coughing, aching, high on sweet cherry cough syrup, reciting Stanley’s lines.
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Stella…Stella…Stella by Starlight…
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I have one of those odd coughs where I produce sputum, but have no other symptoms, not even a sore throat. Good excuse for sucking on those curiously addictive “Fisherman’s Friend” lozenges and getting high on the menthol and capsicum.
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Somewhere I have a letter from you describing a head cold so severe that everything hurt. As I lay in front of the TV a couple days ago, everything hurting, I thought of that letter.
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