“I tap on everything these days. Ceramic coffee cups, the frozen windowpane, a hot lightbulb, my teeth. I let my nails grow long so the sound is sharp and sends a rush crawling up my neck and pouring over my skull. It’s almost like being touched. Almost. Remember sitting on rough carpet, listening to your teacher read from a picture book about dinosaurs, your best friend behind you, spelling secrets on your back, combing fingers through your hair? It sort of feels like that.
Frank is in the living room on a date, even though people are not supposed to go on dates right now. People are not supposed to stand within six feet of each other, or speak moistly. People are definitely not supposed to have new tongues in their mouths or swallow stranger spit. But I’m not Frank’s girlfriend anymore and I don’t want him to mistake my fear of dying for jealousy, so I don’t say anything about it and just wear my gas mask when I leave what used to be our bedroom to go to the kitchen for a bag of kettle chips and a tub of cream cheese, or to the bathroom, or outside for a smoke. It’s night and the clouds are sleeting onto the rotting balcony so I smoke fast.
I hold the empty chip bag up to my ear and scrunch it slowly. I hold my half-full pack of menthols to the other ear and shake it softly. The surround sound distracts from the wet suck of tongues on the other side of the door.”
