Conversation In Isolation II

I invite you over for a drink. Now that we can create a bubble. A single breath of air. Of life. An easing of pandemic restrictions, beginning with a single bubble, another person you can be with, in person, at a distance, inside your bubble. Hugging the circumference of the sphere.

I invite you for a drink because a meal is too complicated. Would you have to bring your own plate and cutlery? I realize I didn’t suggest you bring your own wine glass. I wonder if you’ll trust my cleaning. Have you ever thought of me as clean enough?

I take a wine glass out from the cupboard and scrub it again with hot water and soap. The water is so hot I need to wear rubber gloves. They’re bright blue, like an airbrushed photo of the ocean. Rubbery nubs on the fingertips ensure a firm grip. I’m grateful for that because as the isolation lockdown continues my mind is a wild horse bolted from the stable, the silver ball ricocheting off dinging paddles in a pinball machine. Ding. Ding. Ding.

It’s been cool and overcast. Still. Rain portending. It keeps me indoors. A gusty cold wind blows intermittently knocking dead branches off trees. Nature’s house cleaning I tell myself as I scrub the wine glass until it squeaks.

I have an earworm song looping in my head. I start to sing out loud. To break the silence. The loneliness. I hear Barbara Streisand’s voice undertowing my own,

“Memories light the corners of my mind

Misty water-colored memories of the way we were

Scattered pictures of the smiles we left behind…”

A gust of wind knocks on the window and breaks the earworm. Silence. I listen to my tinnitus humming between my ears like the white noise in a shopping mall. I turn on the radio. A comedy sketch. Canned laughter. It’s mid-afternoon and the radio station assumes we all need a good laugh in otherwise grim times. I don’t find it funny and switch the radio off. Then turn it on again and dial for music. Pounding rock. Another turn of the dial. Opera. La Boheme. I’m not in the mood for tragedy Another turn. Country and Western.

I switch the radio off again. I don’t know which is worse. Silence or unwanted noise. Both feel claustrophobic. Confining. Like being in a box banging off the walls. My tinnitus sounds louder.

The wine glass squeaks and brings me back to the task at hand. I wonder if I should towel-dry it or let it air dry. Which is safer? Should I hand it to you with rubber gloves? What will make you feel safer? Should we wear masks inside? You at one end of the sofa. Me at the other. I’m grateful I have a large sectional. We can write notes on sheets of paper, fold them into paper airplanes and toss them at each other. Air travel. Oh, how I miss that.

Where would I go? Paris? Spain? Mexico? Morocco? Switzerland seems safer, but is it? The Artic? Better to stay put I tell myself as thunder clouds scuttle over top of the house.

I imagine instead a previous trip to Portugal. I’m driving a borrowed jeep northwest toward the coastal city of Porto, one of the oldest cities in Europe the guidebooks state. It’s a winding highway I remember, through miles of orange grove monocultures stretching to the tops of hillsides.

Or am I confusing that drive with another part of Portugal? The coast is usually flat and low. Am I mixing up my trips like a mixed salad? Did I perhaps drive inland first through hillsides? I’m certain of the orange groves. I see them vividly in my mind. I also remember thinking the Portuguese drove fast and recklessly up those hills. Passing trucks on an incline around a bend, whizzing past horns blaring. I’m sure I was doing the speed limit. I tend to drive fast. Obviously not fast enough for those Portuguese drivers on their way to somewhere in a big hurry.

Everything has slowed right down now. Almost no car traffic on the streets. I like that. Quieter. Cleaner air. More birds and animals taking over the city while we humans retreat indoors. A family of Red Fox along the boardwalk has caused a media sensation. A Cardinal is singing on the tree outside my window. Were they always here but I never heard them over the din of traffic? Were we all too busy speeding to notice?

The wine glass slips from my gloved hands into the soap bubble-filled sink. I grab it just in time. Rinse it again and set it out to air dry.

I have hours to kill before you arrive. To kill. An odd turn of phrase I realize though I have used it myself many times in the past. Killing time. Shooting it in the middle. A timeless bubble. I stand in the middle of the room wondering what to do to fill the time. Yes, filling time sounds better I tell myself. As if it is an empty space we put things in. Like a refrigerator.

I’m reading a good book. It takes place during the rise of the Nazi party in Germany. Munich to be precise. The Narrator is Death. He’s male and quite funny. And patient. But my mind is too noisy with anticipation of your arrival to read.

I imagine how it might go. Hesitant at first, concerned about spreading or catching the virus. Should I ask you to take your shoes off? If the virus can stick to clothing and plastic can the soles of our shoes carry it in from stepping on contaminated droplets fallen to the pavement?

I think about what I’ll wear and realize I haven’t showered in three days. I avoid mirrors. I don’t want to scare myself.

I finger through my jewelry box. Earrings galore. Each one comes with memories. A long winding road to go down and so I remind myself to stay focused. Memories are one of those things that fills Time. We are collectors. Trinkets and photos to jog a memory of then. Before now.

Too much time in isolation is not good, I say aloud. We are social beings. Like bees that thrive in colonies, large extended families. We are birds that need to sing. To be heard. Seen. Held.

I’m holding a pair of wooden colorfully carved earrings. A birthday gift from a friend. In Mexico. We share the same birthday week and exchanged gifts on a rooftop patio overlooking a bustling town square drinking Pina Coladas.

I should figure out what I’m going to wear first, I tell myself, and close the lid to the jewelry box. Click.

I stand in front of my clothes closet. Too many choices. I am a clothes horse. A shopaholic. What a waste, I chastise myself. You’ve eaten yourself out of half of them, yet there they drape from hangers as if on a model’s body. I feel fat and close the door. Step out to the balcony. The thick clouds of the morning are separating as deep blue punches through. It’s warming up.

I smell something sweet in bloom floating through the air to my nostrils. The lilac bush? This gift of color and bloom while spring still rocks’n’rolls as undecided as I am about your arrival. Like my mind, I laugh out loud. Spring and I: two silver balls in a pinball machine. Ding. Ding. Ding.

I go outside and walk the sidewalks. I need the exercise I remind myself. It’s too easy to park on the sofa, like my car parked in the lot when I used to work. Parked for eight hours until it’s time to drive it home.

What does one do when all has been stopped?

I fear I’ll have nothing to say when you arrive. Maybe you feel the same. Maybe we’ll just sit at opposite ends of the sofa as far from each other as possible to feel safe and stare like we do when at the zoo looking at unfamiliar creatures on the other side of a barrier.

For a second I regret having invited you for drinks. I think I’m becoming unaccustomed to social interactions retreating into a solitary corner away from prying eyes, a nervous creature in a zoo slinking into a cave. Best to avoid exposure. The unknown, uncertain and strange.

Will we all become loners? Introverts? Anti-social? Like wolverines. Or Possums.

It hits me that the socially adept have learned this. It’s a kind of study. A practice, like learning piano that requires discipline, nuance, attentiveness. Learned and observed and most of all practiced. There are norms, acceptable patterns, and actions understood by those in our same colony.

I see a line-up to get into a bank. It stretches around the block. Masked people cue up. Six feet between each. Red tape marks where they can stand. Social distancing. To be safe from each other. It is the new norm I keep hearing.

I want to weep. I turn away from the line-up and hurry up a side street as a few sobs escape. I stifle what promises to be a flood and swallow the sobs like pills.

I come upon a small park surrounded by well-maintained homes. No one is out. The park is closed. Yellow tape surrounds the children’s play area with its colorful plastic slides and swings. Benches are tapped off. A sign tells me not to walk on the grass. Two paved sidewalks cut diagonally through the square park to each corner. They make an X. Shorthand for kiss. Or wrong. Or divorced. Or don’t enter.

The sun is out but the air feels cool. Still. I’d love to stop for a coffee in a small privately-owned café, sit down at a bistro table by a window looking out to the traffic and sink into the conversations of others around me, the smell of coffee beans and sweet buns filling the air and warming the senses. How I miss that. Alone together. Together.

There is nowhere to sit except the curb, and I feel the urge to use a washroom and so I hurry home. If I weren’t in the city I’d just squat somewhere behind a tree, but here, even with no one in sight, I fear I’ll be observed by someone standing at a window looking out on this strange new world.

I heard sales in Depends and other adult diaper brands have sky-rocketed and supplies are being depleted. We are an aging population and there are no public washrooms in this city. Most cities in the world provide public washrooms. Tourists appreciate that. Here we are not so considerate.

There are no restaurants open so what do we old folks with old worn-out bladders do? Return to diapers? As we were then we become again? I want to grab my crotch and run home up the steps through the house to the toilet, but decorum dictates I make a more socially acceptable exit. I wish now I’d spent more time learning the Kegel method. Instead, I squeeze my legs together as tightly as possible and run like a penguin. Up the steps. Drip. Drip. Take off my shoes. Drip. Open the door and run like a fool with pants around the ankles to the toilet. I kill myself laughing.

No wonder the streets are empty. How far from home are you going to go without some Depends?

I stand at the window. Looking out. Again. It’s beautiful out now. The warmth of the sun seeps through the glass-like colored dye into a white potato. Puffy clouds swim in the blue sea sky, slowly absorbing the blue liquid sky and transforming themselves into different shapes.

Everything is in a constant state of transformation, I tell myself. Being in isolation is transforming us. We are being absorbed by space. By time. Filled with a quietness, a stillness. The smallest things carry significance. A knowingness of something greater than me in isolation.

I step outside again and sit under a tree so I won’t feel lonely. I hear bees among the flowers. I see something that looks like a miniature hummingbird hovering above a flower. It has a long proboscis probing deep into the heart of the flower. Its abdomen looks like a honey bees, yellow and black and fuzzy with tiny bristles in shades of yellow. I study it. Breath held so I don’t scare it while I move closer and closer. I am quite close before it helicopters away. Fascinating I tell myself. I must look it up when I get back in. Inside.

I get out my insect identification book. How is it I never saw this creature before? Is it a new species? Part of climate change? Or have I not been still enough to notice the tiny things living around me. Inside my bubble.

I am flipping through the pages in search of a picture that looks like the creature I just saw. And because I don’t know its name I am forced to turn page after page and before long become engrossed by this vast and strange tiny world. Insects that metamorphize. Like butterflies. Or some that only have a partial metamorphosis, like some beetles that don’t have a pupa and chrysalis stage. They skip a step. A leap ahead in evolution? Or is the chrysalis stage, that deep state of sleep necessary for transformation?

Is this isolation our chrysalis?

It’s a Snowberry Clearning! A type of moth. An insect that looks like a tiny bird.

We are so many different things to another’s eye.

What am I to you I wonder then realize I should think about getting ready for your arrival, except now I am too absorbed in this book of insects to change gears. There are symbols beside the photo and a description to indicate if they are a pest or a beneficial bug.

Always from the human point of view, I muse. It might be very different if you are a hungry bird. But I have a large garden and there are lots of pests that eat my crops. And some beneficials that eat the pests.

Life stands on death. Death stands on life.

I’m reminded of the pandemic and nursing homes where the vast majority of deaths have been the elderly in private for-profit long care nursing homes. The elderly. I’m one of them. I hope I die before I find myself in one of those slaughterhouses.

Oh, that is a bit strong a word, I admonish myself. They weren’t slaughtered. They died of neglect.

Children who die from neglect at the hands of their caregivers are charged with murder. I don’t want to extrapolate the obvious, mostly because I don’t want to become enraged. I feel too helpless. How would I save a life? Do I care enough to march out there in a large crowd, holding a placard, screaming at our elected officials while the police, always armed and dangerous, stand together like the Berlin wall? To protect them from me. I am the enemy. My voice is not wanted. And can be silenced. And is. A single bullet…. Oh, left to an imagination gone feral I can create some stark scenarios.

I laugh out loud.

I have friends who have very finely tuned social skills. When invited for drinks or a meal the conversation is carefully steered away from anything that could upset someone. Social gatherings should be all about fun. It’s not the place for politics or world events, since most now are depressing. Even the weather, now that climate change has become a climate crisis that we are all fully aware of, it is a subject that can silence or enrage a crowd. Neither is appropriate, at these kinds of gatherings. Have we ever been more polarized?

The hummingbird-like insect has returned. I’m wearing a bright red shirt. It comes straight for me. I flinch. A knee-jerk reaction to sudden movements. Then I watch it. We are aware of each other. Aware we are watching each other, passively, inquiringly, curiously. Hello, I say out loud. It zips off. Did it hear me? Does it have ears? Can it smell things? What did it think I was?

How little we know of the world around us. How little we know of each other.

What impression do I want to make when you arrive? It’s important to put my best face forward, the right clothes, hair, and makeup that will assure you that despite this horrid world we are in, I am not suffering. I am well, I feel good. It’s not affecting me. Too much. I do this mostly for you. I don’t want you to worry. Or feel bad for me. Or fear that I have the virus but am asymptomatic.

Appearances matter I tell myself as I flip through the clothes hangers like a card dealer in a casino. Nothing jumps out so I do it again. Slower this time. Slow down I tell myself. Breathe. Stop rushing. It’s just a habit that’s causing you to miss out on the little things, the detail.

A funky summer dress I bought one impulsive afternoon when I imagined myself more elegant than I actually am catches my eye. I tend to gravitate toward casual, and so I seldom wore this beautiful, expensive, impulsive buy. I pull it out of the closet and hold it next to me while gazing in a full-length mirror. It doesn’t reflect what I’m feeling right now. Which is mostly confusion. About your arrival. About this world. I put it back in the closet and gaze at my clothes. Again.

I’m naked and too undecided so I hop into the shower instead and scrub harder and longer than usual. In case. In case it’s on my skin and in case we happen to touch. By accident. I don’t want you to get it.

My bathroom window looks out to a towering oak and White Pine. They must like each other I tell myself, to be growing side by side. I’m a believer in companion planting. Some plants, like some people, don’t get along, and in Nature, you won’t find them side by side. Some gardeners don’t know this and can’t figure out why one of the plants isn’t flourishing and dowse it with fertilizers and pesticides in a vain effort to rescue it.

And then there are the seasons. The spring flowers that like cool weather and a paler sun. Like Irises. Those glorious early birds with extravagant headdresses that wilt and shrivel in the heat of summer, and those summer flowers waiting for spring to step aside are in a deep slumber, like Sleeping Beauty, waiting to be kissed by a hot sun.

I’m still naked and start to apply makeup. Not too much. I don’t want to look like an oil painting. I think people who wear too much make-up look are hiding something, so I’m careful what and how much I apply. A light dusting of powder, a touch of mascara, and bright magenta lipstick. My lips look like traffic lights. Maybe they’ll detract from the rest of my face where canyons of time are grooved. I’m tempted to thicken the makeup.

It’s hard to accept. Aging. The pull of gravity winning the tug o war. I feel I’m in an in-between stage of aging. Young enough to still enjoy watching a youthful strut when it goes by while imagining exciting possibilities and feeling invisible in public. Those youthful dancers are not looking back at me. They are not curious enough to get close enough to see how the contours of time with its many secrets has another kind of allure.

Perhaps they fear me. Us. Fear that we are the picture of dying and death. We are like a disease. Best to avoid contact. I could be completely wrong. It’s equally possible that they are simply searching for that compatible other to grow beside and can’t see anything else.

I’ve decided to prepare some appetizers for your visit. I believe that if one drinks one should eat. To absorb the alcohol. Prevent stomach acid buildup. And not to get drunk as fast. Cheese and crackers. Kalamata olives. Fresh cut carrots and celery served with classical hummus and whole wheat pita bread. I’m digging deep into the fridge to see what is back there and discover some greatly transformed leftovers, which I shove back into a far corner to be dealt with tomorrow.

I’m naked. Still. And feel chilled from the opened refrigerator. I check the stove clock. You are due to arrive! Good grief!

I rush upstairs. Fling open the closet door and grab the first thing that catches my eye. An emerald green linen shirt. Skirt or pants? I want to wear a skirt, something more elegant, but go for the jeans. I always wear the same things, so why do I have a closet full of clothes?

Because shopping makes me feel good. It’s a treat. A little rush of pleasure. A reward for surviving another day. I miss shopping for something other than food.

The doorbell honks, like a duck singing soprano. I hate the sound of the doorbell and promised myself I would change it. That was ten years ago.

Honk! You ring twice. It sounds anxious but I know I feel emotional vibrations in sounds. You tell me I’m inventing scenarios. Anthropomorphizing objects. But that’s not the case. It’s because I can feel the connection between the sound and the maker of the sound.

I rush to the door and throw my arms open in a welcome embrace, but you quickly step back. In that brief moment, I forgot we are living in a pandemic.

Sorry, I say chagrined. It’s so unnatural. This social distancing. It’s like I have to be reprogrammed, retrained to understand distance is the rule of the day. Distanced, together. I don’t get comfort from it.

It’s necessary, you say, apologetically. At least that’s how I interpret your tone.

A whole new world, I repeat. You smile, nod in agreement.

I hate it, I state flatly. I want to rend the curtains. Tear down the wall.

What wall? There’s no wall. There’s science.

I know, I mumble glumly. The science of fear.

For good reason. This thing kills.

I know.

And it’s our age group that’s most affected.

I know.

You don’t want to become cavalier. People do die. Even young ones.

I know I know, I break-in. I know all the stories. How much is true?

It’s impartial science! Your voice is sharp. It’s starting to feel like a debate so I turn the dial.

I hope you like classical hummus with a little exotic something whipped into it, I chirp.

Sounds adventurous, you toss lightly. I step aside for you to enter first. You hesitate. Quickly calculate the approximate distance between us. I take another step back and you slither through the door into the foyer.

You know the drill. You’ve been here before. Many times. Before. I follow, mindful of distance. Six feet. Two arm lengths. I’m definitely too close. It angers me. How can we ever kiss again? Have sex? Hold one another just for the hell of it, just because it feels good.

Sometimes I wonder if living in this fearful world is better than dying. Suicide is a taboo subject and greatly frowned upon by society, but I can understand the allure. If a loveless touchless world is the new norm then I know I would have to contemplate other options. How important self-determination is.

I don’t want to live apart. From you. From others. I will go brain dead. I will develop dementia. It’s too horrible to think about. I keep hoping, as do you and others, that it’s possible that this pandemic will pass soon and we can get back to normal, though we know, like it or not, it will be a different norm. We are warned of this regularly. And so, we obey the advice of officials.

Where will it lead? Will we be afraid to be near people who are infected, vilify those we believe caused it, and while we’re distracted sweeping changes to human rights get quietly passed in Parliament, increased subsidies for big oil are justified to boost a sinking economy, and greater investments in the police force despite pushback? How easily can we be convinced that the world is becoming a violent and dangerous place and law and order is necessary to keep us safe?

In that world, my darling, can love ever exist? Thrive? What will it look like? Duty? Obedience? Will our every movement become tracked? Will certain voices become muzzled? Like artists? Teachers? Will there be only one story at the end of the day? The one-story that contains the truth about what is going on? Can truth be distilled, preserved in time and space? Like a mummy? And more sinister, will this mean we must only have one truth? And that one truth is determined by someone else?

I’m a rebel. It’s in my genes. Like gathering pollen is to a bee. How could I survive in such a world? Would I slither into a dark cave out of harm’s way, waiting for the world to change; or take up arms and push back; or pretend I’ve converted; or block it from consciousness; or take my own life rather than live a false life; or become a stoic, a fatalist with faith in time, believing that this too will pass?

You have been watching me lost in thought. I realize I have brought the debate outside the door into the living room.

How are you? you ask, kindly.

Oooooh, you know.

Yes.

Do you?

I think so.

What?

That you are finding it difficult to be alone.

That response hits like a fist to the solar plexus. Is that true? I think of myself as somewhat reclusive. I need time alone, quiet, and stillness that is only possible when I am away from people and in Nature. I don’t feel alone there. I find people spend far too much time debating points of view. I weary of it. What does any of it really amount to anyway when Nature is controlling the story right now. And when I’m in the city it feels like we are on the brink.

And in the next breath, I’m re-examining your question, all the while looking straight at you. Unblinking. Like a photo. Am I lonely? Do I busy myself with endless tasks in order to avoid its pain? Am I secretly aching for another to share my love with, and to experience it reflected back?

I don’t know, I say to you thoughtfully. Can we ache for something other than another human?

We haven’t sat down yet. We stand on either side of the coffee table.

Because, you interject. In one breath you are saying how you hate being apart from others and in the next how necessary your isolation from others is. They contradict each other. Cancel each other out.

Yes, I know, I laugh. Life is full of paradoxes.

I put you in one corner of the sectional while I sit at the other. Two boxers in a ring.

How have you been? You ask again.

You already asked that?

And?

I just told you.

I got lost in your story. Your dissection of every thought takes me down a rabbit hole and I get lost. I like things straight up and simple.

I’m fine, I say as kindly as possible. Then I immediately feel like the silver ball ricocheting in the pinball machine, ding ding ding. We all lie, but when I lie and am aware that I’m lying and still lie, I feel sick to my stomach.

How about you? I ask and gesture to a large plate of appetizers. Shorthand for help yourself. I would normally get up and take the plate to you as a gesture of respect, but I mustn’t get too close in case the virus is in the room and one of us gives it to the other. I’m sure I don’t have it, as I assume you also feel about yourself. This, my darling, is what fear can do. For our own safety, we must consider that the other could be the cause of our demise. And how long will it take for physical distancing to become emotional distancing?

What I really want to do is leap into your arms, your chest pressed against mine, nose to nose and feel all our fears melt like ice in the sun, our sparring to stop. And in its place, trust. Again.

Now, all we have is the sparring, our playful intellectual jostling, our mental calisthenics, to keep our minds sharp, to fight against falling into lassitude, becoming banal and bland and beige. We were asleep, wrapped in our chrysalis, and awoke like Rumpelstiltskin to a world we no longer recognize. A world that is hostile, prescribed by obedience and sameness.

We both fear mental torpor and so our sparring is our verbal card game. We also share information about what’s going on and what source we got it from. It’s a murky labyrinth to get to the truth. One story contradicts another. Conspiracies of biochemical warfare created in some laboratory in some other country; environmental causes, poverty, and over-population; the virus leaping from animal to human; factory farming, increasingly compromised immune systems.

Just tell me your story, you keep me on track.

So, I believe that no one has the answers to halt planetary catastrophe, and the antidote, to stop the way we have been doing things; turn off the taps, all of them, and do a big reassessment seems impossible because it will be a whole shift in our social order. I smile at your patient listening, I believe that this pandemic is a result of our footprint on this planet. And that we must pivot. And yet in the next moment, I realize that I heat my house with oil, drive a gas-burning car. I’m part of the problem and I’m one of the millions, billions that want to do something about it but don’t have the resources or skills. I don’t have the money to convert my house to something renewable.

And what is renewable? you challenge. Always the devil’s advocate.

I’m conflicted. I add without answering your question.

I don’t know what to do or who to vote for. What leader can do the most to change the course on pollution without taking us into economic collapse? Could the banks shut their doors? It’s happened before in other countries, then an autocratic leader is elected and…

Darling, you mustn’t go down that dark hole, you try to rescue me.

It has happened before. How well do we know our history? Will we even see historical patterns and possible consequences? Look at many of the world leaders today.

Of course. Your right, you state. But remember you have always said all things are possible and each thing contains its opposite.

Meaning go with the flow? How will the vote go? I state more than ask. Most of us don’t know what the candidates really stand for. We’re not getting the full story. And in a pandemic, it’s too easy for people to vote for an authoritarian, someone who looks strong, assures us that everything is under control, and the situation is improving. It’s hard to trust any of them. And I fear they will keep the truth hidden in order to maintain an image of control.

And you’ve always been quite stoical, at least that’s my impression of you. You have a wait-and-see approach to problems you can’t solve; you tell me and smile.

Not because I’m stoic but because I’m in conflict! I don’t know what the truth is? It’s paralyzing. I don’t know who to trust. I feel as if we are marching blindly toward an unknown following a leader whose agenda is intentionally vague.

I think you’re spending too much time alone, you smile again. It looks sensual. You lean over, take a triangle of pita, and dip into the hummus bowl.

You don’t want to hug me, I’m thinking, but you’re okay dipping into the hummus without first washing your hands or wearing plastic gloves. The virus could be on your hands and now in the hummus. How is a hug worse? But I don’t say anything. I’m convinced you’re more worried about the virus than I am — this microscopic living being mutating as fast as it spreads. It’s a moving target, like all viruses. The flu vaccine is hit and miss. It will take a few years to develop a vaccine, but will the virus have mutated so much by then that it is a different virus? And who will we become after a few years in isolation, distanced from others? And what kind of world will be constructed while we’ve retreated? Alone.

Are you taking good care of yourself? You ask as if you were reading my mind. Maybe you can. I think people can do that if they work at it. Work at being sensitive.

Yes, I smile and hope that it looks sensual and assured. You know I buy organic.

How can anything be organic on a planet bubble that is contaminated? You sound mischievous. It’s a dare. But to what game I’m not certain.

I play coy. Okay, it’s a matter of degree. How many parts per million of a contaminate are safe for human consumption?

And remember there’s thousands of mutated chemicals out there, you say assuredly.

I suddenly feel sick inside and put the cracker with cheese back on the plate. And then wonder if I have now contaminated the plate. I sometimes wish I wasn’t so sensitive, I say, and you give me a puzzled look. You weren’t anticipating that response. I got you off guard. One score for me.

How are you passing your time? I ask. Now that you’re not working — because of the shutdown, I am quick to note, aware that being unemployed carries a stigma. But now most of us aren’t working. Our jobs are gone or could disappear. Forever.

We’re headed for a deep long depression, you say glumly.

I just hope it doesn’t lead to war.

Or a totalitarian autocrat in league with big tech, who has enough money to control the autocrat.

Frightening.

It’s possible, but listen, darling, let’s not talk politics on our first… bubble. You smile.

It does feel a bit like a … first date.

Because the habitual patterns are still there? You lob back, like a tennis ball.

Guilty as charged. I like them better.

So, you are a traditionalist! A traditional stoic. You announce as if you have won a competition.

Okay, I concede. You scored a point on that one, but not because you’re correct, but because I wasn’t quick enough with my rebuttal. And I reach for the same cracker with cheese — a health no-no I’m sure. I imagine fundamentalist police spying electronically, bursting through the door and hauling me out by the hair.

I dip the cracker in the hummus and a crumb falls into it. An act of rebellion. I watch to see if you will continue to eat the hummus or fear I have ‘accidentally’ infected it.

I detect a nearly imperceptible nod of understanding, then you take a pita slice confidently dip it in the hummus, and without hesitation put it in your mouth. I sense no fear. Fear is a dark hole and we can too easily take a wrong turn in the dark and fall into it.

I’m trying to see if I can actually become something else, I say.

Like what? I sense a serious tone and suspect you are thinking the same thing.

Can we be reprogrammed? Can we change the way we live? Maybe give up all we once valued? And what happens if we can’t? My heart is racing. Fear. I mustn’t give in to it.

I don’t know. Just wondering if the tables are turned what will I do. Can I be a farmer? Give up art?

You’re a city dweller!” you blurt.

Part of the time. You always forget that. That other side of me. The side you don’t know as well. The side that has a deep connection to land and water and air and birds and animals. You forget what I tell you about it. I think living in the city all the time has a lot to do with that. There’s not enough green space for the population and most parks are a city block square of manicured lawn with some benches and playgrounds for kids. Now barricaded. City dwellers with money are fleeing for the country, where there are fewer cases, and where they think they will be safe.

You’re going to try to cross the border, aren’t you? You ask concerned.

I think I can do it. I have a small farm tucked in the middle of a small rural community.

You have to travel across the hot zone to get there.

I know.

You’re crazy, you say as if you are finished with me.

I suppose.

I don’t feel like arguing about a decision I’ve made after careful consideration. We both can’t help but smile, as if we just shared a private joke. We were aware of each other’s inner thoughts.

And you just invited me into your bubble and now you want a divorce? you tease me.

I love our unspoken sensual play. It makes us both feel youthful again. Loved without expectation.

You could come, I dare. I think bubbles are going to be permanent. We’ll develop smaller circles of friends we can get close to.

I can’t get across, you say with a hint of anger. And you know you’ll be utterly alone there. Your neighbors are far away and have their own bubbles.

I feel admonished. I know you can’t cross. It was a wish fantasy.

I’d love to go. I know you mean it. There’s a longing in your voice, not for me, but a deep personal longing. From your childhood. Abandonment issues. I want to sit beside you and take your hand in mine then hold you in my arms. Instead, I sit at arms-length, feeling your pain and unable to comfort you. For your safety.

I’ll be lost without you, I say, and I feel you gaining strength again as if some magic words were spoken.

You respond with a playful smile. No, you won’t. You’ll get lost in the tulips and forget I even exist. You always had a great capacity to pull yourself out of potential depression. The dark rabbit hole you always tell me that I tend to go down and from which you drag me out.

I’ll call every week. I promise. You give me a skeptical eye. Okay, once a month.

That sounds more plausible.

Then we go silent, the weight of my decision sinking into both of us, like weighted body bags tossed overboard into a fathomless sea. And then it’s time for you to leave.

Do we dare? I ask, arms outstretched. You hesitate. Without facing each other, I add, as a concession. You hesitate then open your arms wide. I fold into your cavity, feel your strong arms coil around me, drawing me closer, each of us turning to face the opposite wall. I want to burst out laughing. But I don’t.

You thank me for a great night then we pause for a moment. In the past, we would hug and kiss before saying goodbye. Now I step back. Give you space. Hold my breath, in case. You turn the doorknob yourself because for me to do it, as I used to, I would have to get too close. One hug was risked, but now, we must respect the rules. I want to weep. You turn the nob pull the door open and step into the night in one smooth continuous motion. It feels to me as if you are running away from something I didn’t detect. Maybe it is just old childhood stuff. Old memories triggering old patterns.

I want to grab your hand, pull you back, let you know I know you are struggling with some inner thing and I’m willing to help you go through it. I don’t. I toss a line instead; I hope I didn’t offend you or make you uncomfortable.

You didn’t, you toss over your shoulder.

It was accidental if I did.

You stop. I’m telling you, you didn’t. But your voice sounds shrill, defensive. You are angry that I am leaving.

Let’s do this again, I say to repair a tear. I really have missed you.

When are you planning to leave?

You put me on the spot. Sooner than I want to admit. Soon-ish. You hesitate, mentally flipping through your calendar. Same time next week? I offer.

I’ll call you to confirm, you say, and disappear into the darkness.

I wait a respectful moment before closing the door. And return to the living room to clean up, the room heavy with our spoken words, hanging in the air still like the virus.