Sick

depressief hondjeThere are days I wish I wasn’t a cyclist.

Days when my boyfriend calls me in a small voice to tell me he’s got the flu. Fever, dizzy, nauseous. He says I’d better not come home, even though we didn’t see each other for almost two weeks, because he doesn’t want to infect me just before Flèche Wallonne. He will manage, I can’t do anything for him and he’s of no use for me. Says he.

On those days I’d long to jump in the car anyway. For him, to take care of him. And for me, to be at home a couple of days, to sleep in my own bed and have my own stuff around me. I was really looking forward to that. I don’t want to wander…

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