[ WP ] One morning you wake up the sickest you have ever been in your entire life . After visiting the doctor , you have been diagnosed with the dreaded man-flu . The only problem is you are a woman .

`` Shit-shit-shit!'' and then the front door slammed, and Hannah could hear his car whine, start and rumble away. He was late for work by the sounds of things. Usually she made sure he was up in time. She was the early-riser of the couple, but today... 
 
 Today he was late and she was still in bed. She reached for her clock, her head too heavy to lift to see the time. She decided her hand was too heavy too and let it flop out of the air and dangle in the small gap between the bed and the night stand. 
 
 She felt like shit. 
 
 No. Worse. 
 
 She felt like a shit's shit. As she rolled on to her back the pillow stayed stuck to her face, snot gluing it to her cheek. 
 
 * * * 
 
 He was a few brisk steps into the office when his phone rang. As he answered it his arsehole of a manager appeared from where ever the old bastard had been hiding `` What time do you call this!'' 
 
 A voice from the phone said `` Honey?'' 
 
 `` Umm, sorry, I err-'' He said. 
 
 `` You're twenty minutes late Bill!'' Said his boss. 
 
 `` Honey, come home...'' Said his wife. 
 
 `` I-err-sorry sir, I err, wife is on the phone and-'' 
 
 `` No excuses, Bill! I warned you-'' 
 
 Bill raised a finger and cut his boss off. His wife had said something severe enough to make him risk his alreayd heavily at risk job. 
 
 `` What was that, sweety?'' 
 
 Redness migrated up andout of the managers collar and spread across the old wrinkly pasture of his face. `` How dare y-'' 
 
 Bill turned and ran for the door. 
 
 `` Get back here!'' Screamed The Manager `` Where do you think you're going!'' 
 
 As Bill shouldered the front door open he shouted back to his now, most likely, ex-boss: `` My wife is dying!'' 
 
 * * * 
 
 The tyres screeched as he hit the breaks and he left the car running as he sprinted to the front door. Profanities and key jingling were followed by a happy exclamation, he had n't locked the door during his early morning escape. The door swung open with a bang and he ran down the hallway, up the stairs and to the bedroom. 
 
 He found her there, in the bed. Her top half was a cocoon of spread and quilt. Her legs were uncovered. 
 
 `` What the?'' 
 
 `` Euuughhhhhrrrrrrr.'' She said from somewhere in the cocoon. 
 
 He approached, still concerned, but increasingly confused. `` Sweety? Whats-er-you said on the phone that-'' 
 
 `` Boo's bthere?'' Her nose sounded beyond clogged. 
 
 `` It's me, babe.'' He sat on the edge of the bed, he could n't see her face through her wrapping, and was more confused now then concerned. 
 
 `` Baby, bhelp bme, I'mb dyingb.'' 
 
 `` Yeah, you said on the phone.'' He patted her cocoon. `` What's with the-'' 
 
 `` Bmy blegs bwere colb and bmy armbs bwere hot.'' 
 
 `` Then why are your legs not-'' 
 
 She started crying `` Because they swibtched, and I got stbuck, and I'mb dyingb'' 
 
 `` Aww-haw, baby, shh, it's alright.'' He'd never seen her so sick - usually she just had some honey tea and soldiered on. He peeled away the sheets that were obscuring her face. `` Dear. God.'' 
 
 * * * 
 
 The Ambulance dispatcher did n't believe it, but had to send the ambulance. Apparently the woman was dying... 
 
 Of Man-flu, no less! 
 
 `` Hey, I know the signs, lady!'' Said the man who had called. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Bill stood outside the hospital room, staring in at her through the glass wall that kept them apart, a doctor was by his side. 
 
 `` You're lucky.'' said the Doctor. 
 
 Bill pressed his hand to the glass. On the other side was the love of his life, his best friend, his lover - his *wife* - and she was sick and there was nothing he could do. He felt helpless. Felt as though he had failed her. 
 
 `` My wife has Man-flu, Doc. I do n't feel lucky.'' 
 
 The Doctor, Dr Emmerett, put his hand on Bill's shoulder. `` You could have caught it and you'd both be in there.'' 
 
 Though it did n't make him feel any better, Bill knew the Doc was right. `` Are you sure I'm not infected?'' 
 
 `` I would n't let you walk around the hospital if you were. I ran and re-ran the tests. You're clean.'' 
 
 Something in the room moved, and the pair turned to see a confused nurse standing next to Bill's ailing wife, who I shall now remind you is called Hannah. 
 
 Dr Emmerett reacted first, slamming his fists on the glass. 
 
 `` Get out! Get out of there you fool!'' 
 
 * * * 
 
 Dr Kilpatrick was that dangerous combination of beautiful, driven, and hugely intelligent. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, her rectangular rimmed glasses were polished to a shinning invisibility of clearness and her outfit was professional, yet flattering - a dark, long-sleeved top over lighter dress pants and short heeled, black leather boots. 
 
 Despite where you may have expected that description to lead to, she is not a bitch. Mostly. But, when a perfectly good hospital room is being wasted on a person who clearly has a cold that could be treated at home with rest and fluids - Dr Kilpatrick dug deep and found some bitch to dish out. 
 
 That's what `` bitch'' was for her. Something to hand out when needed. Not a state of her being, but a tone; a tool, to be kept, and used only when needed. 
 
 And she kept hers in her boots. There'd always been something about boots. Maybe because they made you feel like you could stomp things, she thought. Either way: 
 
 `` *Why*'' That *why* had some extra bitch on it, but over all she spoke calmly and with little emphasis `` are you wasting a room on a runny nose?'' 
 
 The question was aimed at Dr Emmerett. Bill was nowhere to be seen. 
 
 `` Dr Kilpatrick, *that* women'' he pointed to the glass wall and the patient beyond `` is the first to be infected with-'' 
 
 `` She is not the first. It's called the *common* cold for a re-is he in a hazmat suit?'' 
 
 Yes. Bill was. 
 
 **More below. ** 

