Now, it was anyone. Period.
Women. Children. Men. Young. Old. Healthy. We were all at risk.
It seemed every day something changed. The symptoms. The prognosis. The statistics. The vulnerable.
One thing that remained unchanged was Braxton. He continued to come and go at will, driving past my home no less than 3 or 4 times a day.
I had no idea where he was going, but I doubted what he was doing was essential.
It frustrated me that he was zooming up and down the street while I was stuck at home watching the news as if my life depended on it. As frustrating as the information was, it seemed I couldn’t stop watching CNN.
From when I got up to when I went to bed, the news played. If I wasn’t watching it, I was on my laptop, checking the daily statistics of each state, the nation, and the other countries who had a high rate of infection.
The statistics and the stories seemed to be my life blood.
But it wasn’t healthy. I was drinking more than I ever had, eating an unhealthy amount of food, and wasn’t active at all.
At whatever point in time they lifted the stay at home order, I’d have a pickled liver, be grossly overweight, and physically out of shape. One way or another, I was destined to die. If COVID-19 didn’t get me, my failing liver would.
I thought about dying more often than I ever had. Although I was able to accept the death of my parents, I couldn’t find a way to accept my own. Maybe it was because I was young, and I felt that I hadn’t lived a full life. At least not yet.
I sipped my morning mimosa while watching the news. A 36-year-old DJ in Florida contracted the virus and died soon thereafter. He was in good health, had no underlying conditions, and wasn’t considered a person at tremendous risk.
The DJ’s wife and young daughter were being interviewed. Although I was already one glass beyond my self-imposed mimosa limit for the morning, I opened my third bottle of champagne, and poured another. The wife explained how her husband couldn’t get tested because he didn’t fit the criteria. How he became ill, had difficulties breathing, and still couldn’t get tested.
Withing a few days he became so ill that he wasn’t able to stand or walk. She drove him to the emergency room. The hospital then tested him, found that he was infected, and immediately admitted him.
With the hospital on lockdown, his wife was not allowed to come inside.
Two days later, he was dead.
She never got to say, “I love you” or “goodbye.”
The daughter told stories about her father dancing in a ballet competition with her. In closing the segment, the newscaster explained that the deceased had worked a week prior to his illness as a DJ at a local bar. The venue was filled with college youth on spring break. Although no one knew for certain, it was expected the he contracted the virus then.
My eyes welled with tears. It was more than I could take.
Witnessing the family express how the events unfolded gave confirmation to the severity of the disease, the necessity of the stay at home order, and the importance of social distancing and proper hygiene.
While I wallowed in sorrow, the familiar drone of Braxton’s SUV caused me to look up. Pissed off about the dead DJ, disappointed with Braxton in general, and filled with mimosa-induced courage, I rushed to the window just in time to see him get out of the vehicle.
He was wearing a pair of dark washed blue jeans, a black tee-shirt that clung to him like a coat of paint, and leather dress shoes. It was the only time I’d seen him wearing something other than a suit, and it was the first time I’d caught a glimpse of his tattooed biceps.
In a tattoo fueled swoon, I sank into the sofa, nearly spilling my mimosa in the process. Following a quick recovery, I took a drink of the sweet nectar and stole another glance at my promiscuous neighbor.
Without thinking, I rapped my knuckles against the glass.
In the midst of unlocking the front door, he glanced over his shoulder.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I flipped him the bird.
He shook his head as if disgusted with my antics and walked inside.
We hadn’t spoken since the hate fuck debacle. I’d never been so embarrassed—or pissed off—in my life. I wondered what Braxton thought about the incident, and why he hadn’t taken time to apologize, check on me, or at least say something—even if it wasn’t related to the underdressed twenty-two-year-old’s home invasion.
I finished my mimosa and crawled off the couch.
The news flashed to the head of the CDC, who was supposed to give an update on the rapidly growing rate of infection.
Normally they gave updates in the late afternoon.
I glanced at my watch. It was four o’clock. Shocked at how the day had managed to escape me, I glanced around the living room.
Magazines that I’d had delivered with my grocery orders—most of which couldn’t keep my interest for longer than ten minutes—were scattered about the floor like steppingstones. A weeks’ worth of dirty champagne and wine glasses covered every inch of available table space. A dirty pair of sweats was draped over the back of an oversized chair.
The living room looked like an underaged house party ten minutes after the cops showed up.
I lifted my arm and sniffed my arm pit.
I smelled like a wet goat.
My life had come unraveled at the seams. In the foreseeable future, I doubted things would get much better. Frustrated with the situation—and with myself—I finished my drink, picked up the living room, and took a shower.
Upon returning to the living room, I peered through the window, toward the salmon-colored Mediterranean home across the street.
Short of the two additional cars parked in front of the home, everything looked the same.
I opened the front door and poked my head outside. An eerie silence enveloped me. The noise from the freeway was absent. In fact, the typical noise from traffic—in general—was non-existent.
The only sound was that of me, breathing. I peered to the left.
Nothing.
I peered to the right. Two doors down from the Mediterranean home, an elderly woman was pruning one of her bushes. The ground around her was peppered with the trimmings from her afternoon’s work.
She was tall for a woman and had a petite build. Her curly hair was cut short. The frosty white color gave hint from afar that she was high on the list of people who were “at risk.” Realizing that fact made me sad.
Wearing a pair of bright red pants and a lemon-colored short sleeved top, she looked like she was dressed for a night out with her husband.
I waved, but she was preoccupied with her work.
I wondered if she was single or married. Why wasn’t her husband outside with her? Had he contracted the virus? Was he sick? Had he died? Did she get to say she loved him before he drew his last breath?
I watched and waited, hoping to catch her attention.
She set the shears aside and gathered her trimmings in a bag. She took a step back and put her hands on her hips. Seeming satisfied with her work, she picked up the shears and turned toward the driveway.
I waved. Then, I waved again.
She was halfway up the drive, looking the other direction.
“Hi!” I shouted.
She glanced around. Upon seeing me, she smiled and waved.
“I’m Anna,” I said. “How are you doing this afternoon?”
“Just fine, thank you,” she replied. “I’m Margaret. Marge.”