covid – Gabriel Berm

Auld Lang Syne | Short Story

I picked up Marie at her dad’s house, as soon as I was taking out my phone to call her she came out of the front —and only— door. I greeted Mr. Steele from my car, he was wearing a bright pink mask that he bought on amazon thinking it was red. Marie got into the car, as usual, she sanitized her hands using the last drops of Germ-X left in the bottle, and we kissed. Who would’ve thought that in these modern times kissing was capable of such harm?

“How’s your dad?” I asked, diverging my thought from the constant reminder of death.

“Alright, I don’t think he’ll ever get used to living by himself,” she replied while texting her mom we were on our way.

We were throwing a “massive” three-people New Year celebration, Marie, Kate, and I. Kate, Marie’s mom had the tradition of cooking military-level amounts of food and inviting every living soul she knew in town. Completely the opposite of my parents, who don’t really believe in celebrating the New Year. The past two new year celebrations had been great with Marie, before that, I barely cared about our little blue dot completing a circle around the sun. We got to Marie’s home, I parked, and took out a pair of party-sized Doritos bags, and went inside. Kate sprayed us both with 90-degree alcohol. Kate was surprisingly cheery even though her dad died back in august because of Covid. Those last three words defined the year. Anything bad that happened was —is— almost certainly followed by: “because of Covid.” The clock marked 9:30 PM Kate took out leftover decorations from past years, she gave us party hats that said “2010,” and “2015,” respectively.

“I threw away the 2020 ones,” Kate said.

“I wouldn’t expect less, Mom,” Marie said.

Marie and I giggled. I looked at Marie and couldn’t believe this would be our third new year together. I always thought new year’s kisses were overrated but with two —almost three— years of experience I can certify that I was wrong.

“Why are you looking at me?” Marie said probably thinking she had a spider on her head.

“I can’t look at you? Look at yourself! You’re adorable,” I said while squeezing her cheeks.

It was 11:25 PM. Kate said we should pray and thank God for getting to the finish line and pray for those who didn’t. A few tears slid down her face after saying that. Marie hugged her, I hugged Marie, we were all hugging. Hugging: another beautiful thing 2020 managed to turn into an almost biological weapon.

It was 11:45 PM. Marie and I were playing Plants vs Zombies on my phone, Kate was looking for “New year music” on YouTube. A Geico ad blasted through a massive sound system Marie’s dad didn’t manage to get after the divorce. New year’s always make me nervous, they didn’t use to since I went to sleep at 10 PM back when I spent the holiday with my parents, but now, being awake is nerve-wracking. There’s this feeling that everything will be fine and big things are going to change, the amount of weight we put on the new year is abysmal. I’m just thankful for what I have, especially Marie. It was 11:59 PM. Auld lang syne started playing, I grabbed Marie’s hand. The fireworks started to sound in the distance.

It was Midnight. I kissed Marie, Marie hugged Kate. Kate forgot about Covid protocols and hugged me as well. I could feel my shirt getting wet from her tears. It was a rough year for virtually everybody. I kissed Marie again, and we started dancing to the rhythm of Auld Lang Syne, hoping the rest of the year will be as good as the first three minutes.

Author’s Note:

I highly recommend this version of Auld Lang Syne, they’re great.

Atardeceres en cuarentena (cuento corto)

4:34 Marcaba el reloj de la pared con 6 minutos de retraso.
“Te toca,” me dijo Laura con voz somnolienta.
“¿Realmente es necesario tener que barrer y trapear el piso más de una vez por semana?” Pregunté en tono persuasivo.
“Ya te dije, Santiago. Estar en cuarentena no significa que tengamos que vivir como cavernícolas,” me respondió.
Con unos fuertes ganas de decirle que los cavernícolas la tenían mejor que yo teniendo que limpiar un piso a mi parecer impoluto, pensé: ¡Cómo envidio a los cavernícolas! Luego recordé que la tenían mucho peor que yo, forzados a vivir con el mínimo de recursos y sin internet de banda ancha ni comida a domicilio.
Me levanté del sofá ya con una forma casi de molde perfecto de mi trasero y me puse a limpiar. ¿En qué momento decidí que era buena idea escoger trapear en vez de lavar los platos? Reflexioné mientras veía mi vago reflejo en los azulejos.
Laura estaba cocinando, por el olor pude intuir que era pasta… por tercera vez en esta semana. Pasta era lo único en lo que Laura y yo coincidíamos. Yo odio el atún, ella podría subsistir de este, los vegetales no son lo mío, ella es vegetariana y la carne, bueno, solo existe cuando pido una hamburguesa.
Laura estaba sonriendo, una de las cosas que he descubierto en estos tiempos casi apocalípticos es que Laura siempre sonríe cuando cocina. También he notado que arruga su pequeña nariz cuando abre un paquete de galletas con chocolate y que no tiene camisas amarillas, o bueno, no se ha puesto ninguna en 60 días y ya ha repetido todas al menos unas tres veces cada una. Su camisa más frecuente es una con la cara de David Bowie estampada en la espalda.
Una vez terminada mi labor de limpieza por el día de hoy, guardé mis herramientas de trabajo en su lugar. Como ya es costumbre, Laura inspecciona hasta el último centímetro cuadrado de nuestros 60 metros cuadrados a los que llamamos hogar.
“Vas mejorando,” me dijo con el mismo tono de impresión en el que le dice una profesora de preescolar a su pupilo cuando aprende a pegar brillantina en un pedazo de cartón.
“La práctica hace al maestro,” le respondí con una sonrisa mientras pensaba que fue buena idea no endeudarnos más por 10 metros cuadrados adicionales.
Por las tardes me siento en el balcón a ver el sol caer, a veces Laura se sienta a mi lado a leer un libro con una copa de vino.
Esta tarde me senté y pude notar algo distinto, Laura no siempre leía el libro, por momentos podía ver como su mirada se desviaba hacia mí. En una de esas le sonreí. Ella rio cuál niño que atraparon en media ejecución de una travesura. Moví mi silla más cerca a la de Laura sin levantarme de esta, le tomé la mano y le di un beso en la frente. El sol se escondió para esperar al día siguiente vernos a Laura y a mi sentados en el balcón.