I’m stressed at the bodega, inhaling my fetid breath through my face mask. I try to smile with my eyes at the cashier. He asks if I’m washing my hands and I say it’s all I’m doing. When I get back to the apartment, Clara notes that I bought single-ply toilet paper, but it’s okay because it’ll make it seem like we’re “using a dive bar bathroom for the next month,” like a mental vacation. We laugh and it feels good to have something in our lungs, even if it’s a bad joke. We’re incredibly fortunate and very depressed. Both can be true.
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