I place my left hand up against the wooden bedroom door. “Put your hand up on the door,” I shout evenly. This will be as close as my husband and I have gotten to touching in two days.
I say it louder before shaking my head and grunting. Those goddamn AirPods. He can never hear me. My cuticles are peeling and there’s a hangnail on my middle finger I can’t remove because my nail trimmers are in our bathroom, and I can’t access our bathroom because it’s connected to the bedroom where my husband’s been cautiously self-isolating since yesterday morning.
It’s the second week of March.The last time we were together my husband was heading to the emergency room after experiencing stomach pain.
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