Tea with Nausea

I am always terribly embarrassed to be having tea with Nausea. She is far too available for my taste. At the end of our date, I am always saying, “it was good to see you.” And her, with her pilled cardigan and greasy hair, always replying “where to next?” And, of course, I am too nice to tell her to leave so I let her follow me around until she eventually curls up on the end of my bed—she’s homeless, you see.

Nausea has awful style. She dresses with uncertainty, like choosing each article of clothing causes her great distress and so she often wears everything she has (which, of course, makes her sweat unbelievably). She is always complimenting my outfits—as I am her more stylish counterpart. This makes me uncomfortable, like she wants to gather my clothes in her arms while I sit meekly naked.

You see, I am very nice to Nausea and very bad at setting boundaries. Once at a party, I had gone off to kiss a boy, only to find Nausea clutching at my arm. I was afraid he would notice, so rather than shake her off I let her hang about, staring wildly around the room.

Sometimes I am able to have a glorious week without seeing Nausea. I spend time with my friends, have lots of sex, and am considerably productive. But in quiet moments, I miss her noxious smell and pestering questions. Then I find myself sitting opposite her, sipping mint while feeling regretful and somewhat ill.

There are uncomfortable moments when I discover that Nausea has been seeing other people. She tells me she went to Italy with a friend of a friend. They’d done a night tour of the Vatican, shared a crowded hostel, and flown miles above my small apartment. Apparently, they’d had a real go of it. And here I had only been taking her to tea.