Connie, I liked that one too. It was cute. Or, you know, endearing or something.

Yeah, Joe had his uses.

Okay, here we go. Inspired, as it were, by my current state of under-the-weatheredness.
---
potential

She lies on the couch, enshrouded in her fuzzy pink blanket, all the fires of hell battling in her throat. He tucks her in, the only stillness in the dorm lobby.

It is the first time she’s been sick away from home. He brushes her hair from her cheek, tells her he’s borrowed Murph’s car for the doctor.

She smells like death (though he won’t tell her he notices this until later) and probably looks worse. If he can care for her through strep with such gentleness while they’re dating, maybe they can care for each other all their lives.

I love all of these drabbles, the bloody and the sweet. For some reason, I want to write about my grandfather again. I was going to do a "hands" one about my grandmother, too. Maybe I should be writing more about them.

I don't know if it's because I'm the one running the drabbles, but I keep getting blocked -- I didn't write a hands drabble or a knots drabble. But here's my attempt at the standing/lying down drabble....

****

I had no choice when I spent weeks lying flat on my stomach; it was the only position that didn't cause unbearable pain. Give me all the options, and I’d rather sit, stand, walk. But I couldn’t. Those were taken away from me.

Now, with the surgeon looming over me, I was still lying down, but this time it was my choice. Let him do this, cut me open, fix the broken bits, and put me back together, and I might just get everything back. I might be able to choose when I lie down, and when, like my surgeon, I get to stand, and perform miracles.

Teppy, that was neat.

Thanks -- I think I'm a little too Bob Like Carrots about my surgery, but I was totally blocked on what to write for this drabble, when it suddenly popped into my mind -- I was in that lying-down-with-*everyone*-standing situation for 6 weeks. Perfect drabble fodder.

And another....

****

"Give me 5 more minutes, and I'll have the oil filter changed for you," the voice drifted up from beneath the Honda.

"That’s...really fast, isn't it?"

"Not really. Well, I don't know, actually, anymore. I started changing the oil in my Dad's car when I was 14, and after 20 years, the process is completely ingrained."

"I didn't realize you were such a grease monkey."

"Oh, please! An oil change is nothing -- it's not like I'm rebuilding the transmission!"

"Can you do that?"

A pause, and then, "Well, yeah."

"You're just trying to impress me now, aren't you?"

In response, she slid out from under the car and grinned up at her boyfriend.

Ha!