Coronavirus: A monologue (for the most part)

J: I haven’t moved for fear of walking into the cloud of disease that’s now hovering around my door.

D: I’ll get some disinfectant wipes and be there soon.

J: It’ll be too late. The droplets have already traveled across my office and into my orifices. It’s only a matter of time now. I’m so fragile.

D: Not if you didn’t get coughed on. Wash your hands. Better yet, work from home. Hang in there.

J: It’s hard to tell whether or not my nausea is caused by my recent conversation or from a more sinister place. After I die you have to be a genuine human for me. Don’t let them eat you. Don’t become a robot!

J: I’ve because pale and listless. My skin is breaking out in hives. Is it the pizza I’ve been eating for a week straight or…. Is this the end?  My hair looks great though.

J: I can feel the molecules of disease attaching themselves to the walls of my once healthy lungs with each deadly yet necessary breath. There are so many things I wanted, no needed, to do. My life is incomplete and juvenile. Have I ever even known true love? What is it like to have a female six pack? And how does one just walk past a box of donuts?

J: Who will mourn my passing? Will my dying wisps of air being pushed from my weakened sacks be strong enough to say what is needed to be said? Will I be alone when it happens? A warm, if somewhat confused, soul one moment, joyously about to adventure forth on her walk about and discover life. A cold sack of meat the next. There will be no witnesses. No one to cry out in anguish and sadness as my body becomes meaningless. Why should there be? Why would there be?

J: The sadness of my passing, my ending, will be delayed. A small circle of people will observe the body I was once encased in, the true passersby of my stagnate corpse. I cease to flow. Time runs around me as I decay and erode in its undulations. Then there’s nothing. The particles that once were my blue eyes and brown hair and pale skin are now dispersed. My life that I once thought was full and strange and beautiful is but a whisper of a memory. And then it’s gone. My strange and beautiful life is not even a story that is told.