The story below is a work of fiction.
Back to work tomorrow, in eight hours. Last minute preparations. What will it be like; we still have to wear masks. What will it look like, work friends that have been disembodied for the last four months, trying to be social. What’s the protocol for stepping into this kind of limbo, what kind of ground do we have to break in this experiment. What are the success metrics. I am talking like work already. Four panels of translucent plexiglass, five inches thick, attached to a medical-grade stainless steel helmet that we have to walk around the office in. Ambulatory, rectangular slabs of ice that never melt and never interact with one another except through an unseen medium. Is this the future.
The things you find on the Internet. A minor celebrity writer on Instagram: “John.” All his posts are photos of words written in a notebook. Twenty years older than me, still single but always looking. Is he me in the future. Not ugly fat short poor untalented unfunny unconfident. Mothers would call him him a catch but there’s too many things he’s not. Tempting to say it’s not his fault but what if it is. In another universe he got his dream family but here he hasn’t adapted to his surroundings. Is it his fault. If it’s so hard getting married it’s too much of a gamble when you actually find the right person. John’s risk appetite is too broad. There I am with the work-speak. I can’t find anything wrong with him. Maybe that’s the problem. Too straight-laced, too appealing, too reliable, like the deuteragonist to the impulsive female lead in a CW magical realism series. He’ll bail her out, toss her the last-minute tool she needs to escape the situation as only he can, but she has eyes for the antagonist: the brooding, morally ambiguous trenchcoat with a troubled past. John will need stylish facial scars like a Final Fantasy villain or a permanent criminal record. Should I look into that. How can one accomplish this safely.
Maybe a meteor strike will reset everything before it gets awkward tomorrow. It doesn’t need to be catastrophic. Don’t destroy life, just civilization, even it’s just in the area. Most of us will know how to rebuild. There will be manuals stored somewhere. Some billionaire loser must have thought of doing that. If none of them are going to be Batman they can at least commission an encyclopedia on everything folks would need to know, post-meteor. Imagine what that social situation would be like. Bartering five rabbit carcasses that will spoil in a few days for two dozen dust-apples. That’s the most excitement you’ll get outside of roving the treeless landscapes of the world and shooting anything that moves for food. How would sex happen. Quarantine or meteor-smash scenario; seems like we can’t escape the painful reforge of social connection. We didn’t ask for this. Will the cafeteria have those mozzarella sticks that I like.