SLOTHS

It’s a struggle, getting you out of bed to make breakfast.  After rolling a couple of times, you swing your legs over the side and I help by pushing your ample body upwards.  You sway, as if about to be sick, then it passes and you reach for the painkillers.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” I say lovingly, as you use the bedside table to push yourself to your feet and shuffle across the room, “how are you feeling?”
You shake your head, best not to ask, not until after you’ve made breakfast.
I pick up my tablet and start playing Angry Birds, giving myself twenty minutes of fun because that’s how long it takes you to finish cooking.  Then I attempt to move.  My head hurts, my stomach aches, every step to the bathroom is pain.  I feel better after I’ve thrown up a little and splashed water on my face.  In the mirror I look bloated and I’m wondering if that stale smell is me.  I take two paracetomol and lumber downstairs.

My plate is filled with bacon, eggs, sausages, baked beans, mushrooms ...

“What’s that?” I demand, pointing to a red thing.
“It’s a fried tomato,” you reply, “I thought we’d be healthy.”
“I’m not eating that,” I snap, irritated because it’s taking up space that could’ve been occupied by a hash brown, “fruit tastes funny.”
“Sorry,” you mutter.
I move empty beer cans to make room on the table for my plate and we sit opposite the telly, tucking in to the greasy food.
“Shall we go into town today?” you ask.
“I don’t feel up to it,” I reply, “I’m knackered.”
“Me too.  A day inside doing nothing, that’ll make us feel better.”
I sigh, remembering those walks we used to take, the sunlight in your hair, the way you leapt across those muddy puddles, I don’t see you nimbly leaping over anything now, except empty wine bottles.  The clock creeps towards midday as we sit watching comedies.
“What’s for lunch?” I ask.
“We haven’t got anything in,” you answer, “I’ll call Charl, see if she’s going out.”  I settle back as you reach for your phone, “hi, Charl.  Are you goin’ down the shops?  ... Yeah, we feel really ill today, not up to going out ... That’s so kind of you, Charl,” you list the things we need – bread, cheese, crisps, chocolate, pepperami, pot noodle, pasties, an eight pack of beer and a two litre bottle of cider.  I smile with contentment, we may be ill, but there are comforts.  I hope Charl hurries, it’s past 12 o’clock and socially acceptable to start drinking.

An hour drags past; “God, she’s taking ages,” I moan.

You sigh; “She’s getting slower these days.”
Finally Charl arrives and you go to the door, taking the heavy bags from her.
“Wanna cup of tea?” you ask her.
“I’ve got lunch club today,” Charl answers proudly.
“You’re a lovely person,” you reply.
I wonder why Charl bothers volunteering at that lunch club when she’s more aged than most of the old dears there.
You bring in the bags and crack open a beer for me.  Out of the window I watch Charl, in her wheel chair, reach the top of the hill and disappear from view.