“Just stay there until I fall asleep,” I said to her.
“Fuck off,” she replied, letting go of my hand.
And I loved her even more for that.
It’s the Spring of 2007. I’m not long out of the hospital after the stroke. Alison and I have been going out for walks every day. Little ones at first around the neighbourhood. Then longer ones down to the Botanic Garden or up to Princes Street Gardens. Because I’ve been anxious about going into crowded places, we’ve usually gone home for lunch. But today I felt brave enough to venture into one of our favourite restaurants on George Street. Thankfully, the place was almost empty. We had a lovely pasta lunch, and I even drank some white wine. And the young waitress couldn’t have been more attentive, while completely ignoring Alison – is it ever so? Anyway, the combination of the walk, the meal and the wine had me feeling very tired by the time we returned home, so I went to bed. As I lay there, sleep almost overwhelming me, I was filled with contentment. The vileness that had triggered the stroke was gone. I was healing. I felt more able to deal with whatever problems lurked around the corner. And there was Alison, my angel, standing over me, holding my hand and smiling down at me.
“Just stay there until I fall asleep,” I said to her. “Fuck off,” she replied, letting go of my hand. And I loved her even more for that.
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