“You can’t.”
“There you go again, bossing me around.”
She stands, her eyes at my nose, then reaches her hands to the back of my neck and brings us face to face. For a moment, her glance flicks to my lips, and back.
“Youare being pig-headed.”
“Damn straight. Time you figured out who you married.” With that, I grab my prissy bunny mask and walk out the door.
About five miles into my run, my temper drops from about a ten to an eight. Another five, and I’m merely pissed as hell.
Gasping, I stop, find an empty street, and lift the fabric so I can breathe better. Hopefully, I’m not exhaling a whole lot of COVID germs into the air. No one can even tell me how long the damn shit lives in my lungs. I feel like a fucking werewolf or vampire, only with no one to bite.
All I have to do is cough and I could kill someone, or so they think. Who the fuck knows?
I punch the closest thing to me, a brick wall and ease my ass on down to my heels. While I’m not old-fashioned, I figure a wife and a husband should agree on the important stuff. Every God damn time we get a case, she goes out on a limb and this time she went too far.
The good angel nags on my shoulder.You agreed to this sting.
“But hell, what about the email she wrote?”
The cherub pokes me in the ear. “She didn’t hit send, Cat did.”
“Yeah, well, she shouldn’t’ve even been funnin’ around with shit like that.” Because I’m talking to myself, a woman eyes me and darts to the other side of the street. She’d be crazy, too, if she was married to my wife.
“Anyone would be!” It feels good to shout as I stomp toward nowhere. In the past, I’d take a drive upstate but the SUV is low on gas and I’d have to fill up which might expose some innocent person to the plague.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I need work. I need to move around. I need to ditch this teeny tiny apartment. I need space.
Overhead, the train goes by and suddenly I feel like a jerk when a woman in scrubs looks out at me. She’s got a hand on a rung, looking sad and tired.
Damn. What I really need to do is stop feeling sorry for myself and find some way to help. I check my phone, find the nearest testing place and enter. I explain my former symptoms and how I feel now.
“I need to know if I’m contagious.”
“We’ll email your results in about forty-eight hours. Go home, wash your hands, and keep yourself thoroughly isolated.”
“Yes ma’am. And thank you.”
My heart lighter, I keep my distance as I walk home, planning what to do next. First, I owe my wife an apology but she owes me one too. I try to tally up who said sorry first since we met and I do believe I got a whole lot more than her so I’m holding out. I will sleep on my goddamn treadmill if need be.
Of course, that means I’ll have to wait for make-up sex which sucks but I can handle it. I order a six-pack online, pick it up curbside, then head on home.
At the door, I recall how my sugar’s laptop got confiscated, and not being able to afford a new one, call her Uncle Vinny.
“Yo, putz. How ya doin’?”
Maybe this was a bad idea but a SEAL does not stop mid-mission. “The police confiscated Samantha’s computer. Do you know where I can find a used one cheap?”
His chuckle is not the warm fuzzy kind. “What you want. Mac or Dell?”
“She uses Windows.”
“I’ll send one over straight away.” His generous offer doesn’t fool me none so I get right to the point.
“What do I owe you?”
“Nothin’. I have a friend who found a few that fell off a truck. Think of it as a favor.”
