“Lunch is served,” he announced in a muffled, but cheery voice as he placed the tray on the living room table. “If it’s not hot enough, let me know. Heat is kind of my thing.”
He laughed. I did not.
I was took sick to do anything more than moan loudly as I sat up on the couch and stared at what had been placed before me.
The meal consisted of a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a plate of saltines, and a bottle of ice cold Snapple.
“Thanks,” I mumbled. “What the Hell are you wearing?”
Lucifer raised his arms and did a little twirl as if he were the sole model at the world’s most disturbing fashion show.
“A Hazmat suit,” The Prince of Darkness explained as he examined his wardrobe through the protective mask. “I didn’t think yellow was my color, but I was obviously wrong.”
“I have the flu, not the Bubonic plague,” I snapped like a spoiled brat as I picked up the spoon and contemplated sampling the soup. “Besides, you’re an immortal being who isn’t going to be affected by a few germs.”
“I might not be bothered by the sickness that oozes from your every pore, Austin, but the impeccably tailored suit I’m wearing under this could be ruined,” Satan stated rather obnoxiously. “And that’s not a chance I’m willing to take. Of course, I don’t expect to to understand given the highly questionable contents of your wardrobe.”
I just made a face at him and slurped my soup. I felt like crap, the Jets were losing, and I was in no mood to verbally spar with The Devil about fashion.
“This isn’t bad,” I offered a weak compliment and then reached for a cracker.
“It’s amazing the advances the folks at Campbell’s have made in the world of canned soups,” Lucifer snickered. “I’m glad you enjoy it.”
Sick as a I was, I felt like a jerk. The Prince of Darkness wasn’t always the easiest house guest to tolerate, but he had gone out of his way to make me lunch without my asking.
“Thank you for making me something to eat,” I said as sincerely as my flu ravaged body could muster. “You’re always surprising me.”
“You’re welcome,” Satan replied and I could see a bit of a Devilish smile behind his mask. “I wanted to take care of you, but I also had a selfish reason for the gesture.”
“I wanted to sit on the couch and read the Sunday paper,” The Devil told me as he walked around the table and sat down on his end of the couch. “I couldn’t do that with you sprawled out across it like a homeless person.”
I looked over at him sitting there in his ridiculously bright yellow Hazmat suit, as he clumsily tried to turn the pages of the newspaper with his protective gloves.
I don’t have many friends who would be willing to hang out with me when I’m sick, let alone one who would dress up like an extra from The X-Files and prepare me lunch.
“I’m glad that you’re here,” I said weakly. “Life is usually Hell when I’m sick.”
“Clearly, the witty word play doesn’t improve even after you chug the cold medicine. Perhaps you should try taking a little more,” Lucifer suggested with a wink.
I just sighed and took a long sip of my Snapple.
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