What Leaked Out
I can usually deal with insomnia, but not today. After three nights of poor sleep my body feels like a heavy, water-filled container. When I walk upstairs my legs feel weighted.
Recently it was the three-year anniversary of the pandemic, and that sombre milestone has remained with me, and with so many people, like a hovering raincloud. Over the past week, three people I know came down with the virus; and most days there are news stories about Long Covid.
Today my husband and kids are visiting my in-laws, so I’m using the time to catch up on work. In the morning I do email and project admin, then after lunch I write a report and send it off. Next, it’s time to catch up on business reading – but I make the mistake of sitting down in the comfortable chair (with footstool), and of course nod off.
The phone buzzes: a bank rep is calling, answering a question I’d asked. Then a few minutes later my phone goes off again, with a text from a gloomy friend about his latest work politics: “I’m basically screwed,” he declares, in his worst-case scenario way. He’s complained about his job for years, and for years I’ve encouraged him to look for something else. I’ll get back to him later today – maybe tomorrow.
Dinner for One
I stop work just before 5pm, looking forward to having the house to myself for a while longer because my husband and kids are eating out. My dinner’s defrosted pasta with kidney beans that I thought would be good but tastes sour: at this stage of winter, I’m sick of canned tomatoes. I eat only half of the meal, compost the rest, and load the plate into the dishwasher. The remaining tomato sauce trickles down the drain.
Later my kids will re-enter the house, talking loudly while they pull off their boots, dump coats onto hooks, and trudge down the hall. And so, for now, I leave the dishes and turn on the television. Finishing my alone time by watching a show with low production values – and feeling oddly satisfied as the undead stagger around, bleeding from their eyes.
FICTION
