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“I’m serious,” I insisted. “Proof, please.”
He sighed. “It’s actually thirty-eight.”
I quickly converted it on my phone. “That’s a hundred degrees!”
“I’ll take an aspirin.” I heard the rattle of a pill bottle. “My throat is sore, but I feel fine otherwise. No breathing problems at all.”
I chewed my lip. “If it gets worse, I’m going to make you go to the hospital.”
“I promise I’ll go if it gets worse,” he said.
All day I felt helpless. Donovan was sick and there was almost nothing I could do. Bringing him Gatorade felt like too little.
For a distraction, I threw myself into my new pasta-making endeavor. I spent an hour cracking eggs and rolling dough on the counter in the kitchen. The next batch of spaghetti that night was better than before, but there was something off about it.
At lunch the next day I tried ravioli. I assumed it would be easier to make since it didn’t need to be extruded like spaghetti, but it was much harder than I anticipated. I made the ravioli just fine, pressing down on the ends with a fork, but as soon as I dipped them in the pot of boiling water they fell apart.
That night I tried penne noodles. The dough feltrightin my hands this time, and the noodles themselves looked downright normal when I dumped them in a strainer. I made a creamy vodka sauce to go with them, starting with a mixture from a jar and tweaking the amount of garlic and spices. I had to add three times as much salt as the recipe recommended because it didn’t taste salty enough, but eventually I got it right.
“Ireallyhope this batch turned out okay,” I said after placing his bowl in the partition between our rooms. “But I want you to be brutally honest.”
While waiting for him to try it, I had an idea. I went out to the balcony and eyed the gap. I couldn’t carry pasta across, so I climbed over without it. I could eat it later.
I knocked on the glass door and waved. Donovan came over with a huge grin on his face. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I know I saw you yesterday, but I was too tired toreallylook at you.”
I got a good look at him again. He was still ruggedly handsome, but his dark beard hadn’t been trimmed in several days. There was a sunken look in his eyes. They were bloodshot, too.
“I’m happy to see you too,” I said, “but you look like you need a shower.”
“I’m trying a new tactic,” he replied with a lopsided grin. “I figure if I get nice and stinky, it will scare the virus away. Where’s your food?”
“I couldn’t bring it over. I’ll eat later. I just wanted to see you. Go on! Try yours.”
He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Holy shit. This isgood.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“No, I mean it. The pasta is the perfect consistency.”
“Are you sure there’s enough salt?” I asked. “I kept adding salt and adding salt, but it didn’t taste salty enough.”
“I can’t really taste the sauce,” he admitted. “I’m going based off mouth feel. And it feels like something I made myself.”
I squealed happily and did a little dance on the balcony. Donovan grinned at me and sat on the ground next to the glass.
“God I’ve missed you, Feisty.”
“I’ve missed you! It’s good to talk toyou, and not to a wooden door.”
I watched him eat as the sun drifted below the Colosseum to the west. There were a smattering of clouds in the sky, which made the sunset extra colorful. Like a Renaissance painter had swished his brush across the sky.
“This is like our first night together,” Donovan said on the other side of the glass. “Remember?”
“I do. It feels like it was just yesterday… But it also feels like it was a year ago. Does that make sense?”
“Totally. The last month has felt like the longest of my life, but also the shortest.”
I smiled while watching him finish his entire bowl. That was a good sign. He even sounded like he had more energy. Maybe he was starting to recover, fever be damned.
