a funky fine place

“I feel sort of funky.” I say as he hands me a cup of coffee.  I’m trying to shake off a dream where I was caring for a dying man.  He kept getting up glowing green with organ failure, sepsis stinking, death crawling, but he wouldn’t stay down.  And it was obviously my job to stay with him until he died.  So I followed the half-dead man around tending to him, trying to keep him out of the way of all the others who were gong about the chores of living while I chased death.  

“You didn’t eat yesterday.” He answers me.

I argue that I did.

“No, you haven’t eaten in two days.  You get like this when you are stressing.  You aren't paying attention to what you are doing.”  And he adds, "A beer doesn't count as eating." 
“That’s not even possible.” I scoff trying to remember if he is right or not: Monday I worked? Yesterday I had a meeting in the newsroom?
I sip coffee alone sitting up in bed while he moves around outside the bedroom door turning on the voices of Democracy Now.
“I had walnuts.”  This revelation is met with silence.  A handful of farm stand walnuts smashed to pieces with a hammer in the driveway by a 10 year old seems rather lacking.  I think harder.  “C-boy gave me fruit snacks at the gym..”
“Gym was Monday.” His voice is laughing.  “How many miles have you run? I bet you can answer that.”

Well, yeah-but~
I can’t even keep the number from announcing itself in my mind: 4 on Monday & 5 yesterday, that’s NINE.

I’m still tying to figure out if he is right because of course I must have eaten more than that when he comes back in the bedroom, sits down, wrapping his arms around me, and kisses me on the head.  

“Sweetness, eat something today and you will feel better.”
“I feel fine.” I say into the deep canyons of muscle that make up his arms.
“Funky fine?” He laughs.
“Exactly.”  

And in my mind I feel the dying man of the dream finally slip away.

...I think maybe now I'm hungry.