Love in Strange Times

Chapter 1: DesperationThis is so not the best way to outlast a plague, Leo thought, shoving the last bit of his Twix bar into his mouth. There must be better ways to deal with anxiety. Humpf. Big strong man like me, no way should I even know what the stupid word means. How many men do you know who have panic attacks? Hmmm? Yeah, thought so. Just me. Didn’t I buy two of these? Why bother risking a trip to the store in the first place if you’re not going to stock up? Leo kept muttering as he pushed himself out of his old Barca Lounger, tripping over the cat he was watching for his new neighbor. It was against his will, but there hadn’t been anyone else to do it. Poor schmuck had just moved in a week ago. Leo had been watching him out the window, watering his part of the lawn, getting his mail. He had seemed so happy and then, next thing you know, he’s being taken away in an ambulance. “Tough for him,” Mrs. Minerva, Leo’s other neighbor, had piped up from her stoop, dressed in an old ratty maroon bathroom, the old bat. “I hope you weren’t close to him.” She had waggled bushy gray eyebrows at him. Leo shivered, remembering this. He was no spring chicken, himself, but Mrs. M. could easily be his mother, or, God forbid, his grandmother. He had watched her adjust her mask, glasses and hair, (primping? For whom, him?) before going back inside her condo. It was the most he’d seen of her in a month. She had her food delivered, and the man even put the box inside her door for her. He wondered how much she tipped him, or, if she tipped him at all. At least he wouldn’t want to take it out in trade as they used to say in the bad old days, although, he himself, wouldn’t have been above it. That delivery man was cute! Or maybe he was just getting desperate. “Am I getting desperate, cat?” he asked, nodding as he realized how desperate he was just for someone to talk to, let alone, well…maybe the neighbor was straight. Weren’t most of them? He had a cat to feed. He still went to the grocery store himself, anxiety or not; he got a kick out of going to the Safeway, whether it was or not with this damn plague thing going on. He felt like he was living in a Stephen King novel, whereas he’d rather be living in an Armistead Maupin one. What a great writer that man was! Still, if you couldn’t afford to live in San Francisco anymore, believe it or not, Hawaii wasn’t too shabby. Expensive, yes, but not nearly as much as Nob Hill. Of course, he was retired now too, might as well be, he couldn’t have done his job from home. In San Fran he’d had his own business, but sold out just before the s**t hit the fan. Oh well, timing was never perfect, but it could have been a lot worse too. He’d bought the condo here and had been here now longer than anyone else, except for Mrs. Minerva. She wasn’t a bad neighbor, but she wasn’t exactly gay either. Nor a man. He dumped kibbles into the cat’s dish, torn between kicking him (which he knew he would never do, but hell yes, he thought about it, to be honest), and hugging the fuzzy thing. Which he would never do either. He was far too prissy for that. That thing would get fur on his cashmere sweater from—well, back in his New York days, way back even before San Francisco. Oh, he was rolling in money in those years. And men, too. Rolling in men; that made him laugh, which startled the cat. But that made no sense, he thought, shoving a Stuffers dinner in the microwave. This sweater, oh my God he loved it, but it must be at least twenty…oh be honest, he told himself, thirty years old. But it was in such good condition, even if there was nobody to see him in it these days. Isolation sucked. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d let himself go and was ugly. But he hadn’t, and he wasn’t. He checked the temperature in the living room, wondering if he should nudge the air conditioning a bit cooler. He caught his reflection in the closet mirror door: not too tall, but definitely not short; a little gray around the temples, but it looked silver next to his nice full head of black hair. OMG, he thought, I need a haircut but it will have to wait until this damn plague is over. Maybe man buns or mullets would come back in style! Oh, God, no. Nonono. Nope. He noticed he needed a shave; wait, were those gray whiskers? Holy s**t! This aging crap sucked! By the time he could go to a barber again he’d need a f*****g walker. Maybe he could borrow one from Mrs. Minerva.