“What do you want, Covid-face?”
Dave is groggy and rumpled, sharing space in the narrow bed with Dolby, a circular pool of gray fur.
“A stack of pancakes and some crispy bacon at a beachside resort, but I’ll settle for some coffee.” I stroke the kitty, who stretches a sleepy paw which comes to rest on Dave’s bare arm, briefly imprinting his skin with a crescent of claws. Pet me, servant.
Dave is sleeping in his office rather than our bedroom because after stopping by my satellite office for a required computer software upgrade a few days ago, I was flooded with emails that I had been exposed to someone who had tested positive for COVID 19. I hadn’t set foot in that building in more than a year, working quite comfortably from my basement office at home, but my role is changing and I wanted to clear my desk while the IT team did whatever tech voodoo necessary to keep us all on the rails. There were only a handful of us there on a random Wednesday morning, and none for very long, so the exposure emails and the following announcement that ALL the offices were closing for the remainder of the week and the full following week came as a shock.
I was angry. I would now have to isolate at home for five days before testing to see if I’d contracted the illness myself. If I’m honest, I’m pretty comfortable at home, but I’d hoped to venture out for Kenneth Branagh’s Death on the Nile over the long holiday weekend and now that wouldn’t be possible.
The first of the troublesome emails came the same Wednesday I’d had my morning office visit. Had someone had time to fall ill and then test and then notify HR who the tracked us down? That seems like some Dustin Hoffman Outbreak-level speed. Had someone carelessly exposed us or is this truly just an unfortunate circumstance of this contagious age?
On Thursday, my anger still held, but it was competing with creeping fear. I took the Friday off, no doubt sparking some gossip as to the state of my health, but it was my mind that needed the break. My Friday schedule was light anyway, and when combined with Monday’s holiday, I’d have four whole days free of struggling to constrain my annoyance.
I spent the first free day in my comfiest pajamas with my space heater and my Hallmark Channel movies. Dave let me wallow, bringing me a Starbucks iced coffee and carryout snacks between work obligations of his own, his home office being two sound-muffling flights upstairs from mine.
By Saturday morning, I’d retrieved a home test from the stash I’d bought months before and used it, even though it was two days earlier than the five days the CDC recommends. Dave was not yet up and I was enjoying my quiet morning coffee, but knowing that I would enjoy it more if I knew that the occasional throat-clearing and paranoia-cough was just the dry winter air and my anxiety fucking with me. I felt fine and God knows, there was no loss of taste. I was essentially trapped in a house with a well-stocked refrigerator and two years of practice ordering groceries and take out food with phone apps.
The Saturday morning test was negative. I let Dave sleep in before going upstairs for his unconventional greeting shared above. He was telling me not to worry, but in a way that I would have to laugh in spite of myself. That’s just how he is. He followed up by procuring delicious breakfast (my favorite meal) from our local coffee roastery.
On Sunday, I tried to reciprocate by ordering delicious items from a nearby favorite brunch spot, but due to brisk business or short staffing or bad luck, my order was delayed. Dave and I passed the time watching The Tinder Swindler on Netflix until hunger overtook him and he ordered a completely different meal from a Mexican restaurant. More like four meals actually – we’d been hungry before and now it was going on two hours since I’d ordered our missing breakfast and we were starving.
My phone chimes and I see that Dave has texted me from the other chair in our living room:
There was no breakfast. There was never any breakfast. This is all about your free enchilada.
He’s giving me the side eye and I can’t help but laugh again. He will continue to sleep in the other room until I take my Day 5 test, but I know it’s to make me feel better, to remove another stressor, and to allow me space to rest and think. After all, if Omicron is as transmissible as it appears to be, there’s little chance that we could keep it from each other in the same confined household. He knows that I worry, and his support is camouflaged by outrageous zingers to make me laugh while he cooks meatballs and pasta or pops in another mystery movie, since I can’t yet go to the theater for Poirot. I feel healthy, but whatever happens, I’m grateful for this man and I know that we are in this together. For the long haul. And, of course, for the enchiladas.
PS. Negative test! We ventured out to walk in the wilderness today, or at least the park by the Loch Raven reservoir. After a half hour or so of traversing muddy trails, hopping small streams, and admiring the view, Dave announces "We Blair Witched this motherfucker!" before taking me to lunch. He's a keeper.
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