Il est trop tard (the narrative) — 52

Don’t let us get sick, don’t let us get old, don’t let us get stupid, all right? Just make us be brave and make us play nice, and let us be together tonight. — Don’t Let Us Get Sick, Warren Zevon

“What did you say this was called, again?” Thomas asked. They were lying down facing each other, their nose touching just the slightest bit.
“Eskimo kissing,” Aimee answered as she wiggled her nose against his with a grin.
“I…” Thomas turned away and sneezed. He sheepishly peeked back at Aimee.
“Gesundheit,” she whispered as she pecked his nose.
“Sorry, it must be all that rain,” he grimaced.
“I’ll fix you some tea and chicken soup to make sure you’re all healthy tomorrow,” Aimee said, grabbing her t-shirt and pulling it over her naked body.
“I’ll come with you,” Thomas started to get up, only to be pushed back down to bed.
“Remember what I told you about not liking it when people look at me cook? Besides, you need to rest,” she smiled teasingly and kissed his lips.
“But you’re leaving in a couple of hours!” Thomas protested, sitting up.
“Thomas…” Aimee started to say, but the look on his face was determined. She gave up.
“Okay, fine, let’s go, I’m getting hungry!”

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