فيزا
Hello from the ladies' common restroom of the hotel, beloved book of my secrets. I will have to tell you that I'm being up to something kinda disgusting, or at least something that'd be disgusting to someone with a sensitive stomach (definitely not me, a failed doctor). I'm here, in the first free toilet stall I could find, rubbing Sean's hair and keeping it in a ponytail of fortune, as he's bent over the white throne and throwing his soul up, over and over again, in a loop that, sadly for him, doesn't ever seem to end. He's getting rid of everything in his body, his lungs and his liver included I reckon, 'cause so far I've had to flush the toilet and wipe sweat off his forehead four times already... and while I'm doing my possible best to take care of him, I'm also trying to keep a girl who's basically begging to get in out of here, as she's lamenting she's peeing herself, and I naturally don't want her to find out that the only available toilet has been hoarded by a man (that shouldn't even supposed to be here to begin with) and his overly caring girlfriend. I know we should've checked the sign on the main restroom door before getting in here, but we didn't have the time 'cause about two minutes after having drank my coffee and carbonated water mix, Sean started to feel awful, went all pale in the face, and started the vomit fest by throwing up on some lady who was sitting next to us at the counter's shoes. Needless to say, I apologised on behalf of him, aka my speciality, and I offered the poor lady my expensive as heck heels as a payback for the pukes she had to endure. Now I'm barefoot, kneeling on the floor right next to him, rubbing his sweaty hair, making twice as much as the effort I thought I would've made, but I'm relieved. He's finding his relief too, finally, just in time before the gig, and he's also allowing me to be here for him now that he's at his most vulnerable to date. Could it get any better than this? It could... if he'd finally stop throwing up and holding up his own, sore ribs. It could, if I weren't full of fear that the tour bus driver could get in here and summon us aboard at any given minute. It could, if I had a way to sneak him out of here without pissing off the lady who's peeing herself and begging to be let it. I don't have one way to make things work in my terms, I only have a silver coin and black fabric hip scarf, and don't call me an idiot, but I think I'll throw it around Sean's head to camouflage his very visible masculinity once it'll be time to walk out of here. 'Cause if I sheath his head up and only leave his eyes out, he could as well pass as a woman, couldn't he? He could, indeed... if the poor, peeing lady turns out to be just as stupid as I was the night I first met him and mistook him as a girl from behind. More throwbacks, more reasons for me to believe that we'll handle this like the ironic champs that we are. Well, what else can I say here, but the good ole, cliche-like, 'we'll live to tell'?
'It's okay, babe... it's okay. I'm here with you'. I mumble, as I rub his sweaty forehead when he pulls his head back for a second, making me believe he might as well be done throwing up ... but a second after, he just throws it back towards the hole in the loo, purging some more, and cursing under his breath between a puke and another one. He's having it rough, but I know that he's struggling for his own good, and it makes me feel like we're both doing the right thing here. In the way that all I need to know to feel relieved is that he has to withstand a little more of this, and then he'll be perfectly alright. Drunkenness will be just a memory to him, in the matter of a few more pukes... and if that makes him feel any better, I'll be sticking by his side until he'll be done doing whatever he's doing. Like he did with me everytime I was the one in a rather bad place myself, for instance. I've been drunk and high in front of him, I've had panic attacks and vomit crises, I've been severely sick on the morning after pill, too... and in all of these situations, he never left my side until I felt brand new. Now I'm finally getting to pay him back for all the things he did for me, and I'm feeling like I'm doing the long overdue that I couldn't really do before as this is, by all rights, the first time I see Sean struggling in front of my eyes. This is new to me, but I've got his back... just like he's always gotten my own back whenever I was struggling. And surprisingly much, I ain't gotten on his last nerve calling him 'babe' as I thought I would've. Actually, I didn't even realise I addressed him with that nickname until he pulled his head back and looked at me with half a smile on his lips, an unmistakable proof that now, I'm cleared to call him 'babe' again as he doesn't find it 'vomit inducing' anymore. What a great fucking way to find out that all the things he yelled at me through the phone a few weeks ago weren't hundred percent meant ... but if they weren't, then how come he felt like he had the right to yell them at me no matter that? Huh? But does it even matter, given that he's back at calling me baby and I'm back at calling him babe like we used to do in the good old days? Is it the good old days, all over again, or is he just feeling so rough that all that matters to him, is that he isn't all alone in his current situation? Could as well be it.
