Love In The Time Of COVID: A tale of obsession

It was during the time of COVID and the world had turned upside down. He used to love this city but now it just seemed like a massive petri dish breeding the virus and spewing it out through the hot air vents and percolating it inside lungs hidden from view. So many offices were dark and abandoned now, their polished lobby floors the delight of the cleaners that could admire their handiwork without the mobs of boots splashing their trails of salty, grimy snow across them

The streets were also mostly empty and there was nowhere to hide. Except, and this was the real irony, the mask provided the perfect camouflage and when he realized how that made him invisible, he understood the latent power in it. He could become just one more nameless, faceless person walking down the street, standing socially distanced in the line at Longo’s paying for his groceries or riding the subway, which is exactly what he had been doing this morning when he’d spotted her. 

He spotted her on the subway getting on at St. Patrick Street and wondered if she was on her way to work or if she had some business in that neighbourhood. So many offices were dark and abandoned now, their polished lobby floors the delight of the cleaners that could admire their handiwork without the mobs of boots splashing their trails of salty, grimy snow across them. 

There was no mistaking her flaming red hair which he knew was natural but he now noticed had been augmented with some colour at the roots where the faintest fingers of grey were peeking through. Even with the mask on he could imagine her mouth, the upper lip with that ever so faint scar that she had years after receiving a smack from a flutter board at summer camp had sent her to the hospital to get stitches. He remembered that story and had sometimes teased her about it when he was feeling the scar with his tongue. 

“This must be what it’s like kissing someone with a harelip,” he had said to her even though he had no idea what it felt like to kiss someone with that malformation. She had scolded him, not for the teasing, but for what she thought wasn’t a PC comment. He didn’t mind the scolding and she didn’t mind the teasing so they had gotten along just fine. Until one day, when they didn’t. 

When she’d said the words, he’d felt like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs, the blood sucked out of his veins; he had to hold onto the wall to steady himself. It was as if he’d been struck with a blunt object smack across the face, but there was no bleeding, nothing to take to the emergency department to get sutured; at least nothing on the surface. 

“It’s over,” she said and just like that had packed her bags and moved back to her parents’ basement in Lawrence Park where the guest room had baby blue towels with embroidered initials on them. She was gone and just like that he was alone. 

The spaces that she had occupied were vast and cavernous and he’d had to create a world without her in it. He tried to keep busy with friends and social engagements but he realized quickly that she had been the social one and he didn’t have that much to offer in a conversation. He marvelled at how many more hours there seemed to be in a day. How was it possible that the lack of a lover can create such a chasm? 

He dragged himself to the gym. Sweating it out he began to feel energized, the deep inner pulse of acceptance coursing through his veins. He started to envision the future with some hope. Then, Friday rolled around and he remembered that he was destined to spend the evening alone on the ‘loveseat’ wishing he had her warm body beside him.

The grief was visceral; his whole body ached with the loss of her. The pain in his chest was sometimes so intense it woke him up at night and on more than one occasion he found himself at the ER, sweating and disoriented, hooked up to EKG monitors and having vials of his blood analyzed for enzymes. But luckily the test results showed they were only severe anxiety attacks. He was relieved and yet astonished that his body could betray him in such a vicious manner. 

Now the threat of the virus made going to the hospital too risky. The entire world had changed in ways that were apocalyptic and possibly cataclysmic but his inner world remained static, a vortex of desolation and pain, the same as it had been years ago. 

When he saw her on the train he imagined what he might say to her. “Oh, fancy meeting you on this train, I didn’t know you lived nearby.” 

Except he knew he couldn’t execute that lie because he knew exactly where she lived and it was nowhere nearby. He heard the news somewhat accidentally through a mutual friend who had dropped the bomb without realizing it. 

“ You know she’s moved in with him. They live somewhere in Riverdale near The Common,” the friend said. 

He was someone she’d met through her running group; he had been a casual friend and then they had become lovers. It took a little more research but he was able to find their address through another mutual friend when he said that he’d tried to send her a birthday card but it was returned to sender.  

He had the address and it was easy to spot her red MINI Cooper in the driveway. Now he knew she was engaged to him. He’d discovered that by lifting the lid of their recycling bin and that’s how he’d found the prototype for an invitation to their engagement party. 

She’d never gone in for fluffy pink hearts or cheesy Valentine cards but he could see her hand on this invitation – a sleek and elegant card stock with a black and white photograph of the new couple smiling happily on a beach, holding hands and gazing lovingly into each other’s eyes. She had looked at him with those eyes, once. 

There had come a feeling then, he couldn’t quite name it. It was grey and murky and left him feeling like he was walking on uneven ground, like he’d just had the first sip of champagne at a party he hadn’t wanted to go to in the first place. 

The finality of the engagement was like a fatal blow and he wanted to run right inside and tell her what a mistake she was making but he restrained himself; he was making a plan.

He found out where the fiancé worked. He discovered that he was a doctor when he saw his name on one of the envelopes in the bin and made an appointment to see him. It was not really a ruse; he hadn’t had a physical in years, not since his old family doctor had retired. 

The doctor had been congenial, even more so than he could have imagined. His health card had always been registered in his middle name, so there was no reason to hide his identity (no doubt she talked about him) although he imagined that the doctor saw enough patients every day that the familiarity of his name would not occur to him. 

The doctor noticed that his blood pressure was a little high. He asked him a number of questions like: Was there a history of heart disease in the family? How stressful was his job and what did he do in his free time to relax?  He answered the questions and examined the doctor’s face as he scribbled the notes on his chart, and then his gaze fell onto the doctor’s desk where the photograph, another black and white photograph, captured their images, this time with a small blond puppy on her lap. 

“What kind of dog is that?” he asked, more to make conversation and have the visit stretch as long as possible, not really caring one way or another about the answer. But the doctor launched into a monologue about the breeder and the care they had taken in choosing them; no puppy mill for them, they were responsible dog owners. 

He remembered that she had talked about getting a dog at some point in their relationship but their schedules seemed too full to accommodate such a commitment. Would a dog have been the glue that would have bound them together?

He was definitely not stalking the couple but he couldn’t help watching them outside their window from the street. His loitering aroused suspicion more than once and he was even photographed by someone on a cellphone. If only he had that dog, he would have been invisible, blending in with the other dog walkers in the neighbourhood.

He developed insomnia and when he did sleep the dreams would wake him drenched in sweat, his heart racing. He found that walking helped. Something about the cool night air and the sound of his own breathing comforted him. Some nights he walked for miles and would find himself in front of their house even though it was in a neighbourhood clear across the city. He would stand there for a long time just staring at their window; it was shrouded in darkness but his imagination was alight with images. He imagined them laying together, their bodies intertwined, the intimacy of that image burning a hole in his heart. 

His night ramblings left him exhausted the next day and not in good shape for work. His focus became cloudy and he became confused, even during important meetings. There were other things too, his performance review pointed them out clearly but none of this seemed to have much impact on him. It was as if it were happening to someone else, someone he used to know. 

The doctor prescribed medication for him, to help him sleep, but he didn’t like the fuzzy head and the bitter taste in his mouth in the morning. All that was important now was focusing on the way forward. They weren’t married yet so there was still time. The plan occupied his thoughts during the day and his nights were tangled up with the nightmares and the dreams of her, of when they would be reunited again. 

The doctor had asked him to come back in a month’s time to report on his condition and to adjust his medication if need be. But when he phoned the office the secretary said that the doctor was unavailable just now and would he like to book with the other doctor who was taking his place? 

That sent him into a rage. Why wasn’t he available? When would he be back? Who was this alternate doctor that the secretary was advising him to see? The secretary was no stranger to abusive patients and would not tolerate his outburst. She did however answer his question. 

“The doctor is away on his honeymoon. He won’t be back for two weeks. If you wish to wait until he returns I can book you in then. “ 

He hung up the phone, the sleeping pills sitting on his bedside table, and closed his eyes descending into darkness the likes of which he had never known. Who knows how long he lingered there, somewhere between night and day, twilight and dawn?

He thought about all the ways that he could escape from the jaws of the black dog that had him in its grip. He had the pills but when he tried to take a handful he vomited and fell asleep in his own sick. He had the knife, it was really just for camping, but it was razor sharp and he carried it with him most days. He lingered far too long on the edge of the subway platform teetering as the train approached but couldn’t take that final step. 

But now, here she was on the train and she was looking right at him but her face didn’t even register a flicker of recognition. True, he had put on some weight and had lost most of his hair and so, like many balding men, had started shaving his head. He probably did look very different and the mask pulled up tight over most of his features concealed his expression. He knew that he was invisible to her. 

Slowly, silently, he inched towards her on the train. It was crowded, not as much as the usual rush hour traffic but it was full enough. Travellers with bulky winter coats, hats and mitts filled the car and some were carrying shopping bags, dragging suitcases or holding the hands of small children. 

What might she have said had she recognized him? Would even that touch of warmth been enough or would that have left him longing for more? Would she finally acknowledge the longing, the remorse that she felt all these years after their parting? He is filled with longing and desire and that fills that gaping hole between them.  

He is so close to her now he can feel her breathing, her every intake filling him with a kind of euphoria. He can almost feel her hair gently brush up against his chin, the thin white nape of her neck exposed underneath the hair piled up in a messy bun on top of her head. He moves behind her so close that they are touching, so that his belly is right up against her back. She is facing away from him, turning away from him as she had so many years ago. He is invisible to her now. His hands in his pockets, he fingers the sharp edge of the blade and exhales. “Sarah,” he says.