Love in the midst of contagion

Day 1

In the din of the apricot sun, my skin is melting into my couch. I’m sprawled across it like chocolate on a scalding leather car seat. A burst of central air whips around my face, short and sweet like my girlfriend Tahira who emerges from our room dripping sweat. Her mouth contorts to form words but nothing leaves except a wispy “My God, this virus” before slapping my hairy thighs to vacate a space. She releases a heavy sigh against the base of my stomach and this is the first day of life beneath the shadow of an airborne virus. 

One report claims a pilot with walking pneumonia spread it to a flight attendant kissing between the lavatory and the food tray. Then that flight attendant sneezed on and passed around food passengers ordered. The 27 passengers proceeded to inhale that food as if it was their last supper and grew sick a day later. Each of the 27 passengers contacted their local news station and shared mismatched versions of the same event. One claimed the flight attendant sneezed on everyone as he sauntered by them, another claimed the co-pilot spread it to the pilot, and another claimed one of the passengers sneezed on the flight attendant who served the contagious food but a scientist who was on board blamed Africa.

“And people believe the scientist”, Tahira sighs and spreads her body against mine. 

“Bunch of morons.”

For a minute, the two of us with our droll faces, resign to kiss the air between our lips. It’s Tahira’s idea due to immense sweat, due to the punishing virus, due to the tensions across party lines and human borders overall. She knows I want a solid fuck and I know she reads temperament for a living as a remote therapist or effortlessly encourages it as a remote therapist. Every time I clench my fists, press my curled toes against the floor, or grit my teeth, Tahira chalks it up to sexual desire. With the possibility of the Zambia Virus (yes, that's what people call it since it's close to the word zombie for scare tactics) reaching us, the chances of sex are none right now despite the closeness of our muggy bodies.

“You're all over me and yet, we can't have sex”, I grunt and jerk myself while Tahira coils around my body. 

“Can't our love be enough until this virus is gone?”, she asks and I plant a kiss on each of her shoulders. 

We don't grasp how viruses work.

Day 2

Reports on the news inundate me with pilots, passengers, conductors, mailmen, ride-sharing service drivers, pre-school kids dying by the hundreds. All I want is for the grease from this frying pan to spurn me with every brown egg yolk that splays across its surface but a virus is shipping unsuspecting human beings via express mail to their grave. Tahira isn’t aware of that yet in her dream state; aren’t we all naive in sleep but she’ll discover the news through a phone notification from a friend or social media. I’ll hear an earful about the idiot scientist who is decried as a racist or praised as a genius while combating the urge to clamor for sex. She will realize, acknowledge, and ultimately shut down the signs in that order.

“You look…  solemn today”, Tahira says curtly from the couch. “Anyway, that moron scientist says Zambia virus struck North Dakota like a double-decker bus.” 

My back is turned and my ears may as well be plugged up except they’re not and a sigh slithers through my gritted teeth. My mom lives in North Dakota but she isn’t from there; we’re New Yorkers born and raised yet the move was a choice of avoidance for us both. She had Atlantic City gambling demons that plagued her in Manhattan and escape came in the form of a fresh North Dakota residence through a faceless pen pal. I exited New York City, frustrated with my failed trajectory in the field of Broadway, and landed in a San somewhere in Northern California meeting Tahira in the process. If Zambia virus is in North Dakota, my mom most likely got struck by that double-decker bus instead of the gambling imps but that’s a relief, I’m sure. 

Tahira slinks her arms around my neck in the kitchen. The breath from her exasperated sigh tells me there’s an apology coming for the nonchalant aggression of her Zambia virus proclamation. I only notice now that my fists are clenched and that I remembered to shut off the stove before it burnt the eggs crisp but she doesn’t pick up on that. 

“You have a client in ten minutes and you don’t have to apologize, T”, I mumble, fumbling with the spatula as if the food isn’t done. 

“I am sorry though”, she mutters and leaps on my back to kiss my cheek. “Your eggs are cold by now.”

As silent as her footsteps were not long ago, they’re equally as silent. I’m frustrated but I think our love will be enough. 

Day 3

The mailman’s skin is the color of bile when he collapses on our doorstep. I check his pulse with a latex glove when I fetch the mail from his hands and that’s a confirmed death. No matter how lethal the Zambia virus is, I can’t pretend bills are non-existent. The companies sure don’t. Tahira can’t know about this one but I feel conflicted over burning someone’s flesh, stranger, or not. 

“We might have some kerosene in the backyard”, she remarks lifelessly.

The words escape her mouth with a familiar numbness. It’s chilling but I don’t ask where it came from as I drag the mailman’s body around to the backyard. Luckily for me, my neighbors have their blinds shut and doors locked which makes the possibility of prying unlikely. If the wrong someone smells him though, I’ll be bombarded with questions and a viral terror sweeping the country should afford me the excuse of dodging each one. 

When I rifle through our random grilling accessories, if that’s the word one uses referring to a grill, the kerosene canister has enough to pour on him. Of course, I took the precaution of wearing a hazmat suit before dragging him around to the back. The virus reportedly turns the victim’s skin a light green tint before spreading some inflammation throughout the body within five minutes. I don’t know the science behind it and neither does Tahira but she knows we have matches in the kitchen by our toaster. This is the only science I need right now. 

While the mailman’s flesh is consumed by fire, I reach for Tahira’s hand and hers finds its way into mine without eye contact. Notwithstanding the dead guy engulfed in flames in our backyard, there’s an unspoken romance to this. In a country before the virus, I made cold calls on behalf of an insurance company eight hours a day from my home office, and despite Tahira having a work-at-home job as well, we barely interacted outside the standard morning greeting. There’s something unremarkable about seeing your partner every day for the entire day that makes the relationship stale. The virus didn’t change how often we bump into one another but the dynamic is more caring even without sex. 

Day 4 

I want to bury my mom but North Dakota is on lockdown and California is also on lockdown as of yesterday. Word is that the virus is running rampant across the state and claimed the lives of some stubborn employees at an insurance company. The name isn’t big enough to recognize but if I could hazard a guess, it’s the insurance company that employs me. The CEO lives in London and everyone working on-site for the California division is dead. The scientist emerges with news that the pilot on the flight full of Zambia virus passengers returned from Zambia before flying and following the announcement, he drops dead as well. 

I don’t have an appetite for food, news, or even sex. Tahira strolls into the living room and once my stomach growls, she plops beside me on the couch. 

“Sorry about your mom and your job but you should consider eating something”, she whispers. 

Eventually, everyone has to die but if someone told me last year or last month that an airborne virus could be the reason, I would laugh. News says there is no cure and roughly a quarter of the virus’ researchers have been pronounced dead in the past half-hour. I drag myself to the fridge and gorge on a watermelon before I collapse in the kitchen. My chest compresses repeatedly but I don’t truly feel anything and that sucks. 

Tahira and I skip around in a field of sunflowers without a care or a virus in the world. She’s wearing a sundress I don’t recall and I’m wearing plaid from head to toe that she doesn’t recall. The sun shines without heat and if this is death, if this is the final bow before the great beyond, I’ll take it in stride. I’m the closest I’ll ever be to broadway and the farthest away from selling crappy insurance. We don’t see my mom but she could be spinning around in a field all her own and that’s fine with me.