For a second, I imagine having something like that for Charlotte, and Mr. Harris setting up a giant hose to douse her in Dettol spray before she’s allowed inside.
“Unless she can show me a negative test,” he says reluctantly, as though he’s risking his job by even allowing us that much, “she’s not getting in. Quarantine’s lasting a week. Sure you two can survive being apart for that long, eh?”
He shrugs, and his scowl softens just long enough for me to see he actually is sorry about this whole mess; I know he doesn’t have too much say on the matter, that this really is up to his bosses, the mysterious, faceless, building management we’ve never set eyes on but who occasionally send us threatening letters via Mr. Harris to remind us there are no pets in the building, there is no renovation work to be done without clearing it with them first, that if nobody owns up to who damaged the window on the third floor they will be charging an equal share of the (absolutely extortionate) cost of repairs to each resident.
I always picture them in the same way as Station Management, from the Welcome to Night Vale podcast—some mysterious, dark, writhing, many-headed mass of condemnation. Charlotte says they’re more like Mr. Rochester’s mad wife in the attic from Jane Eyre. Either way, I don’t imagine petitioning them right now would make a blind bit of difference.
Mr. Harris steps back, but he doesn’t leave. He’s got to make sure I don’t try to smuggle Charlotte indoors, I guess.
I do the only thing I can, which is to turn toward her and give her a helpless shrug, pulling a face even though she can’t really see it because I’m wearing a mask. I can’t see her expression clearly enough because of my fogged-up glasses, but I can guess how disappointed she is.
She gestures widely enough for me to see, though, and I get the message. I tell Mr. Harris “Thanks,” even though it’s really thanks for nothing, and head back upstairs. Inside, I wash my hands again, take off the mask, and pull my glasses back down so I can see the world in all its high-definition glory again. My phone is already ringing on the sofa and I grab it, answering as I head out to the balcony, leaning over it to see Charlotte standing below.
She runs a hand through her short ginger hair, shaking it out, and pouts up at me, looking so desperately sad. Through the phone, she tells me, “I thought he might listen to you.”
“Because I’m a guy?” I flex a nonexistent bicep and kiss it.
“Because he likes your YouTube videos, you idiot.” She laughs, but it fades away quickly. “I’m going to have to go home. Just as well my parents haven’t gotten rid of my old bed yet, huh?”
“Do you need your stuff? I could drop a bag down from the balcony. Clothes, or . . . ?”
She shakes her head. “Thanks, sweetie, but that’s okay. I’ve got some stuff, and my laptop and things. I can borrow some of Maisie’s clothes. She has terrible taste, but she is my identical twin. Give or take a few pounds.” Charlotte grabs her love handles, cracking a grin.
“Didn’t you both buy the same dress last Christmas?”
“Shush. Look, I’ll . . . I’ll just go back home. I’ll see you next week, I guess.”
“Providing this is all over by then.” And someone else in the building hasn’t contracted the virus, and then someone else, and we’re not in this strict lockdown for the next several months, and Charlotte never gets to come back to our apartment, and . . . My chest constricts, and suddenly looking out at the empty common area in front of the apartment is like surveying some scene from an apocalyptic disaster movie. And I am on my own. I’m basically Will Smith in I Am Legend, except without the dog, and not half as cool, and—
“I’ll be back next week when this silly lockdown thing is over. I promise. I’ll scale the walls if I have to, okay? Don’t spiral.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
She raises her eyebrows, squinting up at me, not buying it. Despite the fact that she’s the one locked out of her home for the next several days, somehow she’s the one comforting me.
“It’ll be fine. It’s—it’s not a big deal, really, is it? In the grand scheme of things. We can FaceTime, and text, and you can have some peace and quiet to film a few videos and get some work done without me walking by in the background and messing up your edits. It’s fine. It’s just a week.”
We talk a little while longer, until Mr. Harris opens the main door long enough to tell Charlotte to please collect her bags and go, and I wave good-bye from the balcony. Charlotte blows me a kiss on her way to her car, and I catch it.
Just a week.
It’ll fly by.
apartment #17 – serena
Chapter Three
“Serena,” Zach yells from the bathroom, “can you bring me some toilet paper?”
Four years of a loving, caring relationship, and this is where it gets you.
At least he still closes the door. Romance isn’t completely dead for us. Yet.
I pause my movie and toss my phone down to grab a few new rolls of toilet paper from the jumbo pack stuffed into the top of our wardrobe, taking them to the bathroom. I open the door, passing them through to Zach one at a time.
“I thought you were going to refill it when you cleaned the bathroom last.”
“I forgot,” he tells me.
“How can you forget? You can see the cupboard’s empty and we need more out.”
“Well, I must’ve gotten distracted,” he tells me, teeth gritted. He snatches the last roll out of my hand just as I’m yanking the door shut again.
Four years of a loving, caring relationship, I think, and it can’t always be sunshine and rainbows and sparkles, or whatever. You’re bound to get annoyed with each other about things, like forgetting to replace the toilet paper in the bathroom, or—“Are we still going to the shops?” Zach asks, coming back into the living room, where I’m back with my movie. I pause it again. Maybe by bedtime, I’ll have gotten through to the end, and I’ll find out if Stephanie ditches her lawyer fiancé from The Big City to stay with hunky Jared from her hometown who’s been helping her fix up her parents’ old farm.
“We can do,” I say, with a tone that makes it clear I really don’t want to.
I’m in my unicorn onesie. It’s a Sunday afternoon. I just want to veg out.
“I thought we were going before my shift starts.”
“I can go later.”
“But it’s Sunday, the shops will be closed.”
“Oh my God, fine, we’ll go now.”
“You can go tomorrow on your way home otherwise,” Zach tells me.
Relationships are all about compromise. Which side of the bed you sleep on, if you need a new car or a nice holiday more, whose family you live closer to. Apparently, that kind of compromise also now includes Zach letting me do the grocery shopping by myself on my way home from the office.
Lucky me.
I don’t mean to say it out loud, but I must do because he sighs and says, “Fine, then, we’ll go now. I’ll go. You finish your movie.”