Page 72 of The Man I Hate

“Do you need anything?”

He shook his head. “Thank you.”

I wanted to lead him to his bed and tuck him in. The disease was far too contagious for me to get within six feet of him. “I mean it, Braxton.”

He glanced at his feet. “I’m going to get a key and drop it here. In an hour or so, come sterilize it. Keep it on your keyring. Only use it if you absolutely have to.”

The thought of needing it caused my throat to tighten. I swallowed against it. “Okay.”

“I’ll call you as soon as I get to bed.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

If there was a hell—and I was convinced there was—Braxton was living in it. He sounded like his next breath was sure to be his last. He looked worse.

I stood in the middle of the yard with my face obstructed by a rudimentary mask I ordered on Amazon, my hands covered with rubber gloves, and a can of Lysol clenched in my left fist.

I wondered what had become of the world I once knew, and if it would ever return to normal.

* * *

I sat in silence and listened to the rhythm of Braxton’s breathing.

He drew a moisture saturated breath. A long pause followed. The sound of him exhaling resembled a distant freight train’s horn. Following another pause, he drew a gurgling breath. He often sounded as if he were choking. The process, as grueling as it was to listen to, continued in a predictable fashion.

I told myself if it worsened, I’d call an ambulance.

My phone’s alarm buzzing startled the hell out of me. I quickly cancelled it, hoping the vibrating sound didn’t wake Braxton from his sleep.

Thankfully, his labored breathing continued.

I hadn’t told Marge about Braxton’s condition, or that he’d tested positive for the virus. I didn’t want to alarm her, nor did I want her to worry about contracting the virus.

I slipped the phone into my pocket and fitted the earbuds into my ears. A final adjustment to my hair camouflaged the fact that I’d be paying attention to something in addition to my conversation with Marge. I didn’t want her to think she’d become any less important to me. If anything, I felt closer to her with each passing day.

Since the beginning of our afternoon gatherings, we had inched closer and closer to one another. Now, we were having our afternoon meetings no more than 30 feet apart.

With my earbuds and phone out of view, I ventured to the end of Braxton’s driveway. Marge was on her hands and knees, plucking small pieces of debris out of her rock garden.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

She looked up. She set her plastic bag of trash aside and sauntered to the closest edge of the neighbor’s driveway. “Good afternoon, Anna.”

I moved to the far edge of Braxton’s drive. We were only twenty feet apart. “How was the pot roast last night?” I asked.

“It was wonderful,” she replied. “I used the leftovers for lunch today, and it was remarkable. It’s funny. I can’t fathom putting mustard on pot roast, only ketchup. But, when I make a sandwich out of the roast, I want mustard on it.”

“I’m the same way with a meatloaf sandwich,” I said. “Ketchup on it when I eat it hot, but I put mustard on a meatloaf sandwich.”

“Why is that, do you suppose?” she asked.

I shrugged. “That’s how my mother always served it to me. Maybe that’s it.”

She considered my response for a moment, and then smiled. “My mother always served the three of us leftover roast beef sandwiches on white bread with butter. We didn’t get a choice, that’s how she made them. I don’t know that we always had mustard, I can’t recall.”

“I can’t imagine life without mustard.”

“Mayonnaise has got to be one of my favorites. That, and wine.” She laughed. “Not together, of course.”