Something Like This

Four people – a man, a woman, two boys – sit down to share a meal. They do not look at each other. They have not forgotten how, although they often forget why. If they were to look, they would see something like this.

The woman is flush-faced and shaking. Glassy-eyed, she eyes her glass of rapidly diminishing wine, prodding lazily at her food. She lost her appetite sometime around month five, along with her sobriety, and hasn’t bothered looking for either since. Her smile is artificial and unconvincing, poorly-preserved, like something she’d boxed up ages ago and saved for a later date.

“Will we see you at Thanksgiving, Connor?” she asks brightly, skewering a potato, then maneuvering it closer to the untouched chicken.

The oldest boy, older by twelve minutes and a lifetime all at once, shrugs. He isn’t eating, can’t eat around the full-face, custom-made black mask that ensconces his entire face. His eyes, shielded behind two glass orbs, are lowered to his lap. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “They’ve identified a new variant in Brazil. M.A.M is thinking of advocating for renewed isolation procedures, ahead of the holidays.”

“Getting hungry yet, Connor?” the man demands around a mouthful of half-chewed food, glaring at his own reflection in the glass-topped table. “Don’t your damned Mammers know good nutrition is supposed to keep us healthy?” He spits out the words, then lifts another heavily laden forkful to his mouth. He’d lost his sense of proportion after three short months, along with his job, and hadn’t managed to recover either since. “Or do you all just want us to live underground for the next twenty years,” he adds vindictively, sweat streaming down the extra flesh hanging from his chin and neck.

“No!” Connor spits, one hand jerking up to touch his mask. “They just want people to be alert. A surge could happ—”

“How far is Brazil from Milwaukee?” the father demands, leaning across the table to reload his plate, his protruding belly straining against the buttons of his shirt. “How many Brazilian students at your school? You – all of you – are going to have to grow up and rejoin the world at some point, you know.”

“That’s what we all said last time,” the mother interjects, tipping back the last of the wine and refilling her glass. “We were wrong. Masked America Mission just wants to make sure we don’t…you know. They just want us cautiously and carefully and…” her words slur and trail away. The father grits his teeth and snorts, but says nothing. The oldest boy presses his mask close against his face, as if frightened it might leave him.

“Well, if you’re not coming home for Thanksgiving, we’ll do a virtual holiday,” the mother laughs. “Connor, maybe you and your dad could go pick out a new VR set tomorrow?”

“Can’t,” the father mutters. “I have another temp assignment tomorrow. It’s in-person.”

“I thought this temp agency promised all virtual assignments?” the woman snaps, focusing at last. “Can’t you call in?”

“No, I fucking can’t,” the father growls, slamming his fist against his thigh. “Temp companies don’t promise shit, because they don’t give a shit about—”

“Don’t use that sort of language whe—"

“I’ll use any fucking language I fucking please!” the father shouts. “I’m trying to feed this family, not that either of you eats anymore, and I can’t just turn down work because Connor wants to play global nanny to the rest of us.”

“You sound like an idiot,” Connor hisses. “You think that just because something isn’t happening in your own backyard…This is normal now. When people like you ignore sanitization procedures and…and…” his voice sputters out, choked on rage.

“You promised all of us this work would be virtual,” the mother mewls, clutching at her glass like some holy grail. Her terrified eyes dance across the room, searching for some corner to curl up in. “You promised Cole and me that—”

“FINE,” the father screams, shoving aside the plate, eyes snapping up towards his wife. “Blame me for everything! I get it – everything’s my fault. Everything that’s wrong with your life, with everybody’s life is always my fault. Pour yourself another drink. That can be my fault too.”

“Shut up!” Connor yells, leaping to his feet. “Mom’s not the one who can’t get a job. She’s not the one who’s failing at everything and can’t deal with the fact that the world doesn’t revolve arou—"

“I’M NOT THE ONE WHO BROUGHT THIS INTO OUR HOME! I’M NOT THE ONE WHO GOT MY OWN BROTHER SICK! I’M NOT THE REASON COLE’S BLIND!”

Mother, father, eldest son all gape at each other, horrified and still. The father gapes at his face, fleshy and pink, reflected in his son’s glass eyes. The mother is frozen, onehand extended towards the glass, fingers twitching. The son raises his hand to his mask, touches its flawless cheek, presses it close.

In the fourth seat, the youngest boy — the victim, the tragedy, the lowered voice — smiles pleasantly into the silence. He lost his fear of it six months ago, along with his sight. Now, silence is his ally. Eternally ravenous. Endlessly affectionate. He is comfortable with it, comfortable in the way doctors and generals are with death. It sits beside him at every table and follows him into every room, like some lost thing searching for its home.

Later that night, a man andwoman who used to be lovers sit on opposite edges of the bed they’ve shared for nineteen years and one pandemic. They do not touch. They have not forgotten how, although they often forget why. If they were to touch, they would feel something like this.

Their mouths meet in darkness, melting away a year of frozen words.

Where have we been? The woman’s tongue asks, awakened and sobered by this forgotten, heady taste.

There’s been a sickness, love, the man’s hands answer, gently cupping and massaging her breasts. There’s been a very long sickness.

Is it over? The woman’s hips wonder, pressing close against the man. Did we survive?

Time breaks and showers over them like rain. Fragile. Soft. Incorporeal. Seconds splash against reality and shatter into a cascade of tiny prisms, catching the light on all their broken edges, transforming the silence into rainbows. Again, this is only hypothetical. It did not happen. It is not a part of the story.

Enough, the man’s body replies a long while later, satiated at last. We survived enough.

Two boys who used to be twins sit on opposite sides of the room they’ve shared for nineteen years and one pandemic. Pictures of a grinning Cole, dozens of trophies, a display cabinet of academic awards line one side of the room. The other side is bare, stripped naked of memories and memorabilia. Silent. The brothers do not speak. They have not forgotten how, although, well, you know how parallelism works. If they were to speak, they might say something like this.

“I’m so sorry, Cole,” the masked, faceless, forever unseen brother whispers. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Why?” the open-eyed, smiling, forever unseeing brother asks.

“I’m sorry I got better, and you didn’t. I wish it had been me. Everything would have been okay, if it had been me. I wish I had lost everything.”

The younger brother — younger by twelve minutes and an unlived lifetime all at once — laughs mirthlessly. “I didn’t lose everything, broken brother. I only lost five percent. That’s all the visible universe amounts to. Five percent. The rest is dark energy and dark matter. The rest is drugs and drinking and divorce. The rest is silence. I think you lost the rest, broken brother. I don’t think you ever got any better.”

“I love you, blind brother,” Connor almost says.

“I love you too, broken brother,” Cole almost answers.

Again, this is only hypothetical. It would be nice, though. A happy ending. Happy enough.