A Wife's Whim

“Alan, wake up.” 

Alan’s wife, Sophie, prodded him in the ribs, trying to find his lone ticklish spot. 

“Grrrbhgrrr,” Alan said in response.

“Sweetheart, I want to tell you something.” Sophie whispered, not wanting to wake the baby on the other side of the wall.

“What time is it?” he asked, rubbing one eye.

“It’s 6:47. But can I just tell you something really quick?”

“6:47 in the morning? Are you actually out of your mind, woman? That’s like three hours before the alarm.”

“It’s only an hour until the alarm goes off.” Alan rolled back over, attempting to resume snoring without further interruption. “But anyway, this will only take a second.”

Sophie nibbled on his ear a little, trying to walk the line between getting his attention and sending him the wrong message.

“Are the babies even awake?” he asked, incredulous.

“Not yet, although I think Kit was singing ‘Let It Go’ in her sleep again.”

“Well, it’s very catchy,” Alan said with his eyes firmly closed.

“So, are you listening now?”

“Yes. I’m all ears.” His eyes were still closed, but Sophie decided he was probably coherent enough.

“I was thinking.” She paused to wait for some sort of acknowledging sound. No such luck. “Anyway, I think we should get in really good shape, go someplace warm, and just be naked the whole time.”

“Well now you’re talking,” he said, opening one eye in a sleepy wink.

“So you think it’s a good idea? We could leave the kids with my parents.”

“It’s a perfect idea,” Alan said. 

“Great!” she said, sitting up now, crossing her legs, and hopping a little. “I was thinking Hawaii, or Fiji maybe?”

“I don’t think they allow chubby people in Fiji.”

“Of course not,” Sophie said. “Hence the first part of my plan.”

“The part where we get in fighting shape before we go?”

“Yes. Exactly. I really think we can do it. Exercise more, eat a little healthier, we’ll be packing our swimsuits and sunscreen in no time. I’ll even get you a pair of those linen pants you like.”

“They won’t look as good on me as they do on the guy in that movie,” he mumbled.

“Not true! You’ll look perfect.” Sophie assured her lovable spouse of twelve years.

“You’re sweet. Anyway. I’m on board. Let’s do it.” He paused. “There’s just one tiny flaw, of course.”

“Impossible. It’s a flawless plan,” Sophie said, throwing up her arms.

“To be sure. Just one question then.”

“Fine,” she said, sighing. “What’s your question?”

“Well, we’re in lockdown. Going on 16 months now.” He was fully awake now, still lying flat on his back, but with both eyes open.

“That’s not a question,” she said.

“Of course, my fault,” Alan said, appeasing his wife. He rolled over on his side now to face her, propping his head up on one hand. “Let me rephrase: What about lockdown?”

“Frankly, I’m sick of it,” she said.

“Sure. Isn’t everybody?”

“I mean, yes, a terrorist group started wreaking havoc, kidnapping people, turning them into something unspeakable, and causing the rest of us to panic and hide inside our homes.”

“The COVID 19.”

“Right, the Jehovah 19. There were originally nineteen of them, but now nobody knows how many there are. Certainly more than nineteen.”

“Did you say ‘Jehovah’?”

“Huh?” she asked, not following her husband’s train of thought. This often happened in their marriage. One second they were finishing each other’s sentences, the next it was like one spoke Swahili and the other spoke Martian.

“I don’t think they’re called Jehovah 19—I think it’s COVID 19.”

“Oh, right,” Sophie said, feeling a little dumb. “So not those nice boys who ride around on bicycles wearing ties with white, short-sleeve button-up shirts?”

“I think those might be Mormons. Anyway, I think COVID is an acronym.”

“Well what the hell does it stand for?” Sophie asked. The baby squealed in the other room, and Alan glanced at the monitor on the bed between them.

“Um, there are a couple different theories, but it’s something like Capturing Only Vile, Infidel Deviants.”

“Well whoever they are, they’re monsters. And everyone knows they’re not only kidnapping deviants. I think they just used that term to rile up more people. It’s practically a pandemic.”

“At least the good guys have a better acronym,” Alan offered. “Fighting Against Unruly Covid Individuals.”

“Yea, right,” Sophie replied, sarcastically. “No one can pronounce it. Fawky, Fowky, Fauci, nobody knows.”

“You’re not wrong about that, but at least they’re making progress,” he said. “I read last night that they’ve started locating some of the cells in each state. It’s only a matter of time before FAUCI completely stops the spread of these brainwashed, COVID imbeciles.”

“Frankly, it’s a wonder their little task force is getting anything accomplished, considering the shitty body armor the government issued all of us,” Sophie complained. “These pieces of crepe paper are supposed to protect us from getting kidnapped by one of the most dangerous outfits to ever threaten our country? They look like those fucking gowns they make me wear at the gynecologist office that cover your ass or your vagina, but never both.”

“Doesn’t sound problematic to me,” Alan said, causing Sophie to roll her eyes at her husband’s lame, dirty joke. He continued. “They’re definitely not perfect by any means, but I like to think they’d ward off those COVID assholes.” Alan sat up, rubbing his hands on his arms, attempting to fend off the chilly shock of emerging from a cozy comforter. “The scientists say they’re 84 percent effective, which is pretty good.”

“I’m still not exactly clear on how they work,” she confessed.

“Honestly, I’m not either, but they say it’s something to do with the pattern ... or the material maybe? Anyway, the news says it’s been tested thoroughly, and when used properly it’s really flattening the curve by giving FAUCI more time to round up the miscreants.”

Sophie glanced at the baby monitor herself. Kit was still snoozing, a rare occurrence, as their five-year-old was usually the first one awake. The baby was sitting up in her crib, happily sucking on a pacifier and flipping through a colorful board book.

Despite being just the two of them in the room, Sophie brought her voice down low, the way people do when they’re verbalizing something they think they maybe shouldn’t.

“You know what they’re saying the Jecobra 19 are doing to people, don’t you?”

“Honey …” Alan said, using that tone he employed whenever his wife got herself worked up. 

“Alan. It’s serious.”

“I know, but we’re staying safe. We’re staying home.”

“Violet’s sister’s cousin said they captured her hairdresser. Four days later, they released him, and he hasn’t said a word in months. He just goes around, drawing shapes in the air with his hands, pretending he’s in a box he can’t get out of, that he’s jiggling an invisible door knob that won’t open.” 

“You’re kidding,” Alan said. “And the outfit?”

“Yup,” Sophie confirmed. “She said he wears the stripes and everything. Every day.”

“Even the face paint? The white makeup? The black diamond shapes around the eyes?”

“Every bit of it.”

Alan shuddered. “Well if that’s not enough to stay home a bit longer, I don’t know what is.”

Sophie nodded along solemnly. She stood up to attend to the baby, now wailing, and there was coffee to be made. Their alarm hadn’t gone off, but the nine-month-old baby had no respect for such things.

“So,” Alan said with a yawn, stretching his arms up above him. “Cinnamon rolls or pancakes for breakfast?”