The story below is a work of fiction.
He went on a date. It was illegal in 40 states, maybe theirs. She texted if he wanted her to wear a mask but he forgot to reply. She wore a headscarf but no not for religious reasons. Her family was from the Maghreb but she looked east Asian; he once memorized epicanthic fold types but couldn’t recall them. This is what quarantine does, he thought. Sabotages deliberate memory-forming, gaslights a man’s genes against their own propagation. She could pass as smudgy-faced Villager #4 when Tom Cruise saves an entire caravan from a tribal warlord on the steppes. She makes eyes at Tom after he implausibly honors one of their local customs at the victory festival that night.
What do you know, she was an actress. Fantastic hip flexor and gastrocnemius medial head genes for hunting Saiga antelopes. Just filmed a bit part in a Netflix series set in a future where every building is a translucent nightclub and people travel on novelty-size floating Apple products. She played a forensic pathologist. Cybernetic eye, different visuals: thermal, topological, aural. Something with schematics and scrolling text too small to make out. Could tell if the husband was lying about the dishes. Her agency CV described her as “a Lucy Liu with sci-fi spunk.” Wasn’t she already that, he thought. She said she did some immersion for the role. Contextual inquiry with the county pathologist for a few days. She described him in dismissive tones, will probably Me Too him into poverty in a few years for looking at her a split second too long and having an autistic middle aged mustache.
How did they film during the quarantine. Scenes where two or more actors were on camera had to be live but some could be done separately and brought together in post. He said soon all actors would just do voice because the visuals would just be graphic. She took offense to this, face flattened like the village rake had mortally insulted her shaman grandmother. I don’t have the talent for that, she said. She was right. Her voice was like cracked baby bones doused in shampoo rattling in a martini shaker.
He checked out her Instagram after the date but he already knew all about it. On set, behind the scenes, symmetrical-hand-on-hip pose with another POC, #noMakeup once or twice except for obvious eyeliner and a little base, rainbow overlays, locally-sourced food made of dirt, a pit bull interrupting her downward dog, top-down autumn coffee, womens’ marches hashtag signs in mid-shout, something about saving retarded albino jackal puppies from being drowned in the Sabou. What was that thing she mentioned—he spent an inordinate amount of time Googling around. That’s it. She said her pivotal scene involved color sorting logarithms and identifying the murderer. He watched one video until 3 in the morning. Maybe she should’ve worn a mask.