As it turns out, while I was running away from Responsibility the other day, I was running blindly into the arms of Diarrhea. (What? You didn't want to know that?)
The kind of diarrhea that has you pulling your hair, shaking your head, moaning, and saying, "There can't possibly be anything left in there to poop out!"
Ryan is really at his best when I'm sick. He came home from work Wednesday to find me on the couch with a look of agony on my face. "Does it help to have that look on your face?" he asked.
Yes, actually, it does.
At my request, he made mashed potatoes for me to eat. He walked into the family room where I was stationed (a short sprint from the bathroom) and held the bowl out to me, leaning with the rest of his body, turning his head away, to keep outside my germ space bubble.
"Thanks," I groaned.
"Don't touch me," he said softly, handing it off and shuddering.
It was a beautiful moment between us.