Pathogen

Friday Night

Here's what's in my backpack: the book I'm editing in case there's some downtime to do some work because I'm supposed to be working from home, this journal, as many pencils as I could grab—all varying degrees of sharpness, an old pocket knife but not a good brand like Swiss Army (probably purchased it at Duane Reade when I moved to the city), a half-used roll of duct tape, a keychain in the shape of a horse my sister gave me for good luck when I was a kid, two of those mini applesauce cups, a three-quarters-full jar of roasted peanuts, a canister of oatmeal, four bottles of water, a change of pants, underwear, a couple of bras, two tee shirts, socks, tampons, what's left of my birth control, three condoms, my phone and charger, hot pink lipstick, and some sunscreen.

Let me back up. Earlier today, Dave came back to my apartment after we'd shared a delicious breakfast of dried up clementines and dandelion leaves. The flavors didn't go together, but other than oatmeal, my kitchen is starting to run a little low on breakfast foods. He said we had to leave, that the city was going to be completely closed down and he didn't think there'd be services or resources.

We argued. Two days (God, is that all it's been?) and we had—and survived—our first fight. No make-up sex. Not yet. Why? Because he convinced me we had to leave the city. No cars are allowed on the streets unless they're emergency vehicles. We're not even supposed to be out, so we spent the day making our way around the city, trying to get off of this island.

I remember from history class that it used to be a swamp or a marsh or something like that, before the Dutch took it from the indigenous people. Or bought it. Or traded it. I'm not a historian and I don't edit historical fiction or anything, so I don't actually know. But as we walked through the city, I kept thinking of how much better it'd look as a swamp or a marsh. I've always kind of thought the whole concrete-ness of the city was too imposing a stamp of our constant need to prove we can tame nature when she can knock us back with a well-timed hurricane, blizzard, or virus. The skyscrapers and gridded streets look wrong without cars and people and bikers and kids on scooters and dog walkers with six dogs on one leash. The city is too quiet with no horns blaring and music blasting and people shouting to one another. I don't like it.

Dave held my hand a few times and I let him. I guess if you're going to make out with someone, have sex with them even, it's not so weird to hold hands. I thought maybe he needed that contact, to know I was with him on this insane attempt to leave Manhattan. Then I thought maybe I needed it.

Now it's night. There are still lights on in Central Park. None of our attempts to leave the city on the west side worked. Tomorrow we'll try the east side. Dave asked me to email Noel and try to find out where his house is. If it's close enough to the city or if we can get our hands on a car, we could go there and wait this thing out. If Noel tells me.

"Wouldn't it be crazy to ride-share our way out of this?" Dave asked before I took out my journal to write under a flickering trail light and the swarm of mosquitoes attracted to the bulb.

"All of this is crazy." Even we're crazy. For each other. I didn't say it. I didn't want to fight again. Instead, I started to write.