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I had the flu. But not just any flu. No, this was the kind of bug that forces a normally rational human being to dial information and beg the operator for Jack Kevorkian's home phone number.

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This was the kind that leaves a generally well-groomed woman crumpled on the sofa in her rattiest flannel nightgown, the one that her 79-year-old aunt from Detroit presented with the keen observation: "Magenta puppies always make things look zanier."

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"Man," he called out while hanging his coat in the front hall closet, "I've never seen so many beautiful women in one city." The love of my life continued from the foyer, "I mean, it's like a convention of supermodels out there."

He rounded the corner just in time to watch me sneeze cherry Jell-O over the Arts & Leisure section. "But," he stammered, "none as beautiful as you, my darling."

"Avert your eyes, for I am hideous," I whimpered á la the Elephant Man.

"No, seriously, you look ... not horrible," which was true, provided you're drawn to individuals who appear to have combed peanut butter through their hair.

Finally, in what can only be described as a genuinely pathetic effort to change the subject, he added, "So, I'm just curious. When was the last time you, uh, you know ... showered?"

I gathered up my Sudafed, my Tylenol, my Mucinex, my Puffs, my honey-and-lemon cough drops, my lip balm, my thermometer, my blanket, my "TV Guide," my diet ginger ale, my wonton soup, my cordless phone, my few remaining shards of dignity, and with all the icy élan a woman dressed in a soup-stained frolicking-puppy print can muster, I replied, "Good day, sir!"

He tried for a last-minute save: "Are you losing weight?"

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When I was extremely young and shockingly stupid, I thought you weren't supposed to ever get angry at anybody you cared about (lest you suspect I'm exaggerating the "shockingly stupid" part, I also thought Mount Rushmore was a natural phenomenon).

I guess when you're the type of girl who walks around thinking that the wind just sort of sculpted Teddy Roosevelt into the side of a mountain, the concept of a fairy-tale relationship makes total sense.

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But when Johannes fights, he fights like a grown-up.

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I wanted to say, "Your only mistake was in not lobbing the basket of stale sweet rolls at his head" -- hell, the cheese Danish alone was heavy enough to stun him into silence.

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I admit there are moments when I'm not sure if it's luck or love or fear of failure that keeps us going, and I ask Johannes if he knows what I mean.

There is a very long pause. He is contemplative. He is introspective. He is sound asleep.