Last night, from off in the hallway, Peter says, “Hmm, that duck isn’t making me feel so good.”

A couple of hours earlier we’d had a dinner of leftover pad thai, which we’d made the night before, and some leftover duck salad from a restaurant, from Friday night. Both things we’d eaten before, to no ill effect.

When Peter says he’s feeling sick, no offense, it usually means he’s eaten too much. Which also means that I’ll probably be okay, but it all depends on the party we’ve been to. It’s far less likely that he’s about to throw up because he’s eaten something toxic.

As I’ve related earlier, I have a bit of a tetchy gut, and just about anything semi-dodgy makes me yak; when I travel, I plan on being down with vomiting for a day or two. (Miraculously, this has never been the case in Mexico.) By contrast, Peter has a GI tract of steel, and can eat steak tartare sandwiches given to him by lepers. It’s a little infuriating to travel with, in fact (‘cause, y’know, Lonely Planet says those leper-made sammies are the tastiest thing to eat in Cuba!).

So, when Peter says he’s feeling sick, and I’ve just shared a dinner with him, I have two very conflicting responses: 1) Gosh, Peter, I hope you’re fine. 2) Gosh, Peter, I hope you are sick, just so you know what it feels like for a change.

And then, the corollary to the latter: If he’s sick, then I am truly screwed. How sick am I willing to be just for a little petty satisfaction?

As I’m sitting in my chair, writing and mulling over this dilemma, Peter does indeed start throwing up. It doesn’t sound pretty. I’ve very quickly lost my nerve—I take it all back. I never wished he’d be sick. Evil, evil, evil. And is that a dull ache I’m feeling in my own gut?

From here, it’s waiting—to see if I really get nauseous, and to see if he has to throw up again. If it’s just a one-shot deal, then it was pure gluttony or just too much chili in the duck (that shit was deadly hot), and I’m off the hook. I’m mentally calculating the ratio of my dinner to his—I’d really had only a few bites, because I’d had a bunch of bread and cheese beforehand. So, 1:4, maybe? Does that mean I’ll puke 75 percent less?

Just about the time I’m really beginning to question my own digestion, Peter rouses himself from bed to throw up again. I am still wide awake, sitting up writing, and now I know I am fucked. I close up my computer and ready myself for misery.

But I’m an old hand at this. So I’m regaining a teensy bit of that schadenfreude, because I can puke up my dinner like a pro, and I know I’ve been through a lot worse than that meager bite of duck (or was it the shrimp in the pad thai?) can do to me. It has been a few years, so I’m a little rusty, but it’s just like riding a bicycle. There, one quick visit to the toilet, and I’m feeling much better. (But I can tell that won’t be the end of it. Not sure how I know, but it’s one of those things you get good at judging.)

Meanwhile, Peter’s coming around for his third visit, and moaning a bit—“No màs,” he says weakly, futilely. I can’t say I’m actually enjoying watching him, because it is awful to see someone you love suffering for something they didn’t set themselves up for (if it’s their own damn fault, well, that’s different). But there is this nasty little core in me that is taking a sick pride in my years of experience with food poisoning, dysentery and so on. From the age of eight, I think it was, and that roast beef au jus at Villa di Capo in Albuquerque, in which the beef had a fascinating iridescent gleam to it, yet I still ate it because the au jus part was so fancy-sounding… Certainly, controlled vomiting was never a life skill I aspired to perfect, but I’ll take what I can get.

“Hon,” I want to say to Peter as he huddles on the bathroom floor, “this is nothin’.” But he’s already heard my worst barfing story, so I try to look at the bright side: “At least we’re not so in synch that we need the toilet at the same time. At least we don’t have diarrhea too. At least we’re not in a palm-thatch backpackers’ hut somewhere up the Mekong with only a pit latrine.” And to myself I say, “At least I had only a couple bites of dinner.” Evil, evil, evil.

We made it through the night, having heaved up everything by about 4am. The next morning, Peter said, “I think that’s the most I’ve thrown up, well…ever.”

Damn it. This robs me of all satisfaction, as it only reminds me of all the times I’ve gotten sick and he hasn’t, of what a strangely lucky duck he is (ew, duck, just the mention makes my head spin a little). Is there a German word for the sort of schadenfreude that comes back to bite you in the ass?