Late afternoon summer bathing has become ritual. I look at my picture I.D. My face is fringed with dried wisps of hair, refugees from a damp ponytail. I sip my latte, same as the expression on my face, plain, no sugar. Time to return home, I guess.

“How are you feeling?”, Gus asks.
The evasive, “OK, how are you feeling?”
“OK.”
We have told each other nothing, given nothing away. Are his symptoms worse than mine? Is he in more pain, less mobile, less capable? Will I be caregiver or dependent today? We lay, a thick suspenseful silence hangs. Who will get up first? Who will succumb to the urge to pee, get something to eat, and the ultimate concession of wellness, smoke a cigarette? How had we two found each other, capable of being so miserable together as to make ourselves sick? Yet, never figuring out the cause of our illness, it becomes a competition. Our suffering has been the torture of psychiatrists and each other.

The wedding is in September.