not my-niscus, his-niscus

Thursday, Doug’s knee decided to attempt mutiny. He took an old pain killer from the fingertip removal incident. The night was like a bad comedy routine.
“It hurts when I do this.”
“Don’t do this.”

Doug couldn’t go twenty minutes without moving and every time he moved, he reflexively yelped from the pain.
“Please stop moving.”
“I didn’t move.”

Friday morning, Doug couldn’t remember a thing about the all-night squirm and scream-a-thon.
“What are you talking about?”

His version of the story.

Friday night was the same song, but a different verse.

I offered to help him get undressed and he stubbornly refused.
“I can do it myself.”

He then proceeded to channel his inner toddler. He whined. He stomped his good leg. He twisted, flopped and flailed.
“My pants are stuck on my toes.”

I untangled the still squirming feet from the ridiculously twisted pants.
“You missed the socks.”
“Well, aren’t you the special butterfly.”

His version of the story.

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