Benny has a fever and I'm not feeling so great either. Bully for me. Bully for you. My spine is feeling like a sad little goat with a very sharp axe is methodically, dutifully slicing away at it. And I feel myself getting whatever cold or flu Benny has invented, I can taste my tonsils and my throat feels gritty. So, GREAT.
I got up to make coffee, and creaked across the floor, all stiff and irritable. Dan asked me if I was okay, and I said something along the lines of, "Oh, I'm fine, I just have the back goat slicing away, and am miserable, but THAT IS FINE, because nobody knows, and NOBODY CARES, and do you know why nobody knows, and nobody cares? BECAUSE I SUFFER IN SILENCE. I go along, trudging, secretly groaning, rotting, dying, and nobody RECOGNIZES THIS and I get no sympathy, no love, from the dark bland wasteland of this miserable world, because I do not complain, and I do not holler about it, and I still get up to make the coffee, and I DO NOT DISCUSS IT."
You know, something like that. It might have been exactly that. It might have been something even more obnoxious. I might have sloshed blame around with a thick, broad paintbrush. Of course, Dan is accustomed to blame. He wears it like a protective mantle. The dark, blamey mantle of marriage. That protects him from joy.
Anyway, so much later I was doing something (noble and self-sacrificing, no doubt) and I said something to the effect of, "My throat hurts. AND YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW THAT." And Dan said, "You're right, I don't know. You must be suffering silently again." And then I said, "Do you know what you are?" meaning to say something like that he was cruel and unusual, and he said, wincing, "Bloggable?"