Reba lives in fear of Covid-19. But not for reasons one would expect. She’s terrified of the stigma.
“Stigma?” I said. “I don’t understand. Anyone can get it.”
“That’s the point. Anyone can, but shouldn’t.”
We sat with masks in Loring Park. Children carried balloons, the old sat in sunshine, bicyclists bicycled. All wore masks. Even the Canada geese, aloof and superior in their built-in masks.
Reba continued. “It’s like when we were young, and heard about a friend catching an STD. How loose do you have to be?”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking. This is the disadvantage of a mask. All you see are the eyes. Reba’s are cool and brown. “I never caught an STD,” I said.
“You wouldn’t.”
I ignored that one. “Anyway,” I said. “Covid is just something we’ll have to live with. It will go away some day. In the meantime, it’s the best thing possible for our relationships.”
“How so?” Reba asked.
I explained. Now that the pandemic is raging, we have every incentive to stay with our partners. Work things out. There’s no choice.
“No choice?”
“None. With the dating scene the way it is, there are no other options.”
Reba frowned. “I never thought of that.”
Reba had been dating my pal, Walt. A small business owner. Walt is an extreme conservative. Reba is an extreme progressive. I thought they would tear each other apart. Instead, they fell in love. “What’s wrong?” I asked her.
She lowered her mask to sip from a straw. “Nothing. Except now there’s pressure.”
I didn’t understand.
“Don’t you see? Pre-Covid, you could date anyone. If things slowed down, you found someone else. Now there’s no choice.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It’s terrible!” Reba looked off into the sky. “It’s like a train ride across Siberia. You’re stuck in your seat, scraping frost from the window. Think of the endless, snowy plains. The gray skies. The monotonous clank clank clank of iron wheels on iron rails…”
Reba is an artist. She is imaginative, extremely so. It’s not always a good thing. She groaned, and put her face in her hands. “I was happy a minute ago. Now I’m miserable!”
Walt appeared, walking between socially-distanced picnic tables. He was a bit early, which is his nature. He is sort of the anti-Reba, punctual, cheerful, unflappable.
“There’s Walt,” I said.
Reba jumped up and ran to him. On the way she tore off her mask. Leaping into his arms, she kissed him. “What is all this?” Walt said.
“I’m glad,” Reba said. “That you and I are on the same train.”
Walt didn’t quite understand. Even after we told him about Siberia. But when it comes to love, some things don’t have to be explained.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com