Would you do anything for me if I was sick?

"Would you do anything for me if I was sick?"

He received this text message at 5:30 in the morning, from an unknown sender.  The number was unfamiliar, but had a pleasing pattern of digits.  He thought, hm, good, maybe I am important?  He didn't know whether or not to respond to the message.  He turned over in bed, knocked a few books onto the floor, and sighed.  His back cracked solidly.  He was sleepy.  He thought that maybe if he saved people's number with their corresponding names, he wouldn't be so confused.  He thought about sausages.  He thought about someone lying in bed with a bad cough, a beautiful girl, only made more beautiful by her infirm nature.  Her cheeks were pink from a fever, and lips enlarged, naked in the rawness of her flushed skin, not as pink as her cheeks, but a lighter color, and to touch them would have been pure joy, better than sex, better than winning a long foot race, better than diving into a pool of petroleum jelly.  Her hair was dark brown and tousled, bed-headed and busty, like some precarious scaffolding erected on an unleveled surface, her perfect skull.  He imagined her without any hair.  Still beautiful.  There were some light sheets and a white down comforter, accented by hundreds of crumpled tissues.  They looked like failed origami, cranes, sheep, dragons, lizards, all twisted and crushed.  Good.  He imagined her voice vacating her weakened body, and she was writing under the blurb of an old paperback book, telling him what she wanted.  He would do anything.  He knew this.  She finished writing and showed him the book.  He rolled back over in bed, to the upside-down V of his cell phone, glowing blue on the sheets beneath itself, a tent of technology.  He picked it up and hit the reply button, and typed Y-E-S.  Send.  Good.  He drifted back to sleep, and thought of fruit with extremely painful exteriors that were extremely tasty once you got past the spikes and needles.