Oblivion

It’s nighttime so my husband and I walk and talk in circles. We are running away from something, together, as we walk the same route every night around our neighborhood. In reality we walk every night around our neighborhood, a variation on the same route. Every conversation between us has melded. My husband and I know each other’s thoughts so well all we do is give a signifying look. Why waste breath? We only have so many.

I love him, still, yet it’s almost worse than being alone. When you’re alone, you can let your mind roam. With another, you have to keep the conversation going, spinning the wheels of the same things over and over: When will this end. When can we get away. They’re no longer questions because we know they have no answer. The virus isn’t worth talking about anymore. Nor is the lockdown. My husband and I live in a slow-burning horror story. There’s no need for panic. Dread is a way of life. We look at each other and hope love will get us through this. Love is an empty pail. It thuds at the bottom of our chest when we throw in whatever we can to stay alive.

It’s a late-October Thursday night. Barely six thirty, yet it’s already dark. Mars hangs low in the sky. My husband gripes about something or other with a few mumbled words. I point out Mars, as he knows I would; he acknowledges it with a flick of the wrist.