burning

I am awake at 4:00am because I have a fever behind my brow. Behind my left eye. In my neck. Down my back. My toes are curling in disappointment as the rest of my body sinks deeper into the mattress.
I have yet, in my more than three years at the library, taken a legitimate sick day. My fingers are tempted to flip the switch, but what stops me has always been what stops me: I can. I will wake to the alarm and slip myself from the bed and fumble for my glasses and slowly, slowly creep to the office and spend a few quick hours making a difference before skulking back to bed. I almost certainly will.
I have a day and a half to resurface and to clear the heat from my vision before S and I are to take a trip up to the top of the country for loving and bachelorettes and birthdays and anniversaries and a wedding--and playing the processional as my favorite bride walks down the grassy aisle. I cannot be There and not be Well.
I can't sleep--my heart beats too quickly and my arms are covered in goosebumps. There's no way to skip this part, is there? A cool cloth for my eyes, an allowance of time when the morning comes. There is something so human about fevers. I'm being offered up.