Short Stories 2024

Meaningful Contact

February 2021

Something about the third online meeting of the day finally broke Mandy. Perhaps it was the utterly dull pointlessness of it; perhaps it was the utter dullness of the day outside, after three months of relentlessly dull lockdown. The fog still hadn't lifted – even if it was more just mist with attitude, it was still cold and damp and miserable.

Mandy pulled her cardigan tighter and refocused on her manager, regretting it immediately. She yearned to be back in the office, where paradoxically it was much easier to ignore her manager and spend time with people she liked. She didn't envy her colleagues who had families getting under their feet and needing home-schooling and so on, but how she missed seeing people normally! She missed passing in the corridor or kitchen, the little everyday interactions like sharing a teaspoon or passing the milk; even the little sounds of other people fidgeting and breathing around her...

All the signs that she wasn't alone - which now, holed up by herself since December, were so clearly absent.

The first lockdown had been OK – nice weather, a novel experience, a palpable sense of national camaraderie; she'd enjoyed her daily jog along the canal. Now the days were dark and short and there was a feeling of stupefied resignation. The longing to return to normal was almost physical.

On-screen, she realised no-one would notice her turn her camera and mic off. She slumped back in her chair, hugging herself and allowing a blessed few minutes for the tension to drain away.

To her consternation, she realised she had put on weight. Her work dress was feeling more than a bit tight, and she squinted suspiciously at her thighs – surely more spread than normal. Abandoning the laptop, she experimentally struggled with some jeans, and had to give up completely on one skirt. She had barely left the flat for six weeks, she realised.

Horrified, she pulled on shorts and a hoodie and set off for a jog along the canal.

Even in the fog and drizzle, it was good to be outdoors and active again. But her body, neglected and unprepared, begged to differ: as the lock gates loomed up indistinctly, pain seized her left leg like a vice, knocking it from under her and almost toppling her into the murky water. She grabbed the heavy wood of the gate and clung on, sweating with the effort of not howling savagely into the fog.

Out of nowhere, a gentle voice took charge, gentle hands easing her away from the edge. Mandy felt her leg propped across firm thighs: the gentle hands stroked and rubbed and eased, and the voice murmured reassuringly. Opening her eyes, Mandy looked into the calm smile of another jogger, a woman a few years older than her. Mandy felt the sweat-slick smoothness of the woman's thighs under her leg, the gently insistent massage of the woman's fingers on her skin, the sheer nearness of her as she eased Mandy's cramp.

The touch of another person - the feel of her breathing, the smell of her, the pressure of her hands and body - was overwhelming. 

"Thanks," Mandy gasped. She meant as much for the human contact as for the first aid, but couldn't find the words to articulate the extent of her gratitude.

The woman satisfied herself Mandy could stand and walk. "Take care, now. See you around." She squeezed Mandy's hand and resumed her jog.

Alone again in the fog, Mandy burst into tears.