I Will Hurl Myself Back Into the World

On hope.

When quarantine first started it was all so quaint. Suddenly I was some Laura Ashley bitch, floating around my studio apartment, dragging a fay little finger along the bookshelf.

My boyfriend and I had a date night. Steaks. We set the dining room table with tea lights and everything. Would any of it have happened if I didn’t put it on Instagram? Of course I put it on Instagram.

We didn’t know we’d still be here. I work in the home office nook and he works on the couch, his already-neglected back problem now facing irreparable damage, I’m sure. We haven’t done another date night. We are rarely apart.

We hoarded boxes of pasta and bottles of water. We learned Gin Rummy on the internet. I tried some new cocktails. I ate a lot for a few weeks, whatever I wanted, then I stopped because I felt bad.

I read about being white. I read about being Black. I started saying “we” when referring to white people. I’d only ever said “they.”

I joined the DSA. I did the Zoom orientation but I haven’t signed up for anything else.

I bought a lot of shit. I bought clothes and candles and a standing desk. I bought two new baby gifts. I was promised a bonus at the end of the year.