When the pain from the fever wracks my body, I don’t want anyone to touch me. Yet at the same time, I am desperate for a man to hold me and help soothe away my misery. I hate being sick and alone. I want to be with a man who will hold me close to him, gently stroke my hair, and lovingly kiss my forehead. I want to be with a man who will make me soup and bring me tea. I want a man who will draw me a hot bath and then sit next to me, talking softly to distract me from the pain.
None of the men I have dated since my divorce have loved me enough to care for me like this. When I got sick when I was dating them, every single one of them ran for the hills. Some might send texts to check on me. Others did not. Their love was not enough to risk my contagion. Their selfishness was greater than their compassion.
So even as I sit here with snot dripping down my face, a thermometer rising higher, and chapped lips from all the mouth breathing, I still wish a man were kissing me. I wish his arms were around me. I wish I was partnered to a man who could see my beauty despite the virus. I wish I was with a man whose love knows no bounds.