My kind-of-boyfriend and I hiked all day, had a great dinner at Thep Lela and then he stayed at my place. During the middle of the night, I awakened to him pushing me to the other side of the bed.

"What now, Rick?" I asked. I was upset and let him know it with my tone. Whenever we're getting along well and our relationship is moving forward, he performs his two-steps-backward dance. I'd been expecting it for the last couple of weeks, although I found it strange he was pulling this nonsense at 1:40am.

"My body aches and my head hurts," he answered. "I don't want to get you sick."

I'm a terrible person for thinking the worst. My sweet, considerate Rick's not running away; he's protecting me from germs. God, I love this guy.

Feeling his forehead, I discovered he was feverish. Rick's always healthy, so this was a stroke of luck. I'd been given the opportunity to nurse him back to health. I'm not sure if the maternal instinct kicked in or some neurotic co-dependence took hold, but I was excited.

I hurried to the bathroom. Tylenol, a thermometer and a cool, damp washcloth returned to the bedroom with me. 101 degrees. Fantastic. This illness should be around at least a couple of days, giving me enough time to demonstrate my giving, caring nature.

I stroked the few strands of hair that still grow on his cute, bald head and he finally fell back to sleep. Unfortunately, I never did. Rick tossed, turned and moaned every few minutes.

In the morning, he turned on the TV, perused the guide, watched several channels for a couple of minutes each and then surfed the guide again. In case you gentlemen don't know, this is extremely frustrating, especially when Charles Osgood is on. Pick a show and watch it.

I left him to go to Safeway for sick-people food. When I came back, he was drinking orange juice. "No o.j. when you feel queasy," I commanded, removing the glass from his hand."

A few minutes later, I took the dog for a short walk. As soon as I walked back in the door, Rick was calling me. "I threw up," he yelled. "And I saved it for you."

"You don't need to prove you threw up," I responded. "I believe you."

"But it looks funny. I want you to see it."

I lifted the lid of the toilet. Frankly, it looked like normal regurgitation to me and I told him so. He argued. I flushed, ending the debate.

Looking around the bathroom, I noticed a pile of his clothes on the floor. Apparently, he had looked for something, because the contents of the medicine chest were strewn on the counter. In the bedroom, the floor was littered with a bucket (just in case), remote controls, magazines, used tissues and my laptop. I'd like to note that my entire house was tidy before I left for the store and it now looked as if a family of raccoons had passed through.

I cleaned up while he recovered from his bout of nausea. When I finally sat down, Rick asked for a toasted bagel with butter. I explained butter might not be the best choice, but he insisted. Soon after, I heard his next round in the bathroom.

This was ceasing to be fun. I put my hands over my ears and prayed hard he just had a 24-hour bug.

"Nikki, come here," Rick called.

"I'm not looking at it."

"I want to show you something else," he replied. I walked into the bathroom where he was holding my tube of Colgate. "You know how you bend the middle to get the toothpaste? Don't do that."

Is he seriously using the quintessential couple argument to goad me? I had to laugh. After only a day-and-a-half, I was annoying him as much as he was annoying me. Rick and I have dated on and off for years and I have no idea when we became so set in our ways. Is this yet another consequence of being 40ish?

Lying in bed, we chatted about it. He admitted he's sometimes overly messy at my house because he thinks I'm obsessively clean. I admitted nothing. (Should I apologize for having a sparkling home and knowing what you shouldn't eat when you have an upset stomach?)

The next morning Rick said he felt better. He still had a fever and I encouraged him to stay, but he said he really wanted to go home. I was actually relieved when he started packing his bag. As soon as he left, I changed my sheets, sanitized the bathroom and for good measure squeezed the toothpaste tube from the middle.

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm happy I live alone. Later, on the phone, I confessed my feelings to Rick. He said he's happy I live alone, too.

Email: nikki_silverstein@yahoo.com.

Are you receiving Express, our free daily e-mail edition? See a sample and sign-up for Express.