Very Careful

Nicole touched her upper lip. The skin was cracked and dry. She shrugged. It was January in New York. Everything was cracked and dry, from the sidewalks to her toenail cuticles, which she absentmindedly picked at while she watched TV at night. More often than not, this habit resulted in a small to medium-sized bleed, which she’d patch with one of her son’s band-aids, a whimsical affair, usually adorned with space or unicorn scenes. The picked skin would heal in a few weeks, only for the band-aid to be removed and the skin, fresh and dry and tempting, to be picked at again.

Repeat.

She moved her weight from one foot to the other while waiting in line at the grocery store. Just a quick stop for dinner necessities — pasta, meat, wine, beep, beep, beep — and she’d be home, where it was warm, and she and Chris could drink the wine while they cooked, and Charlie played on the floor. She smiled, thinking of the cozy scene, keeping an eye on the self-checkout lanes in front of her. Please hurry, she thought.

On lane two, Robin was struggling with the scanner. He’d been feeling sick for days and finally dragged himself to the Urgent Care down the street, only to sit in the waiting room with a dozen and a half other sick people for three hours and be told he had a virus. Fluids and rest were the answer. Fluids and rest! He could’ve had fluids and rest during the three hours he spent in the germ factory. He was at the store to stock up on virus essentials: Gatorade, soup, crackers, and cold and flu medicine. Beep, beep, beep, beep. As he reached into his basket, a racking cough shook his body. He buried his face in his elbow, as everyone was taught to do, again and again, during the COVID-19 pandemic, until the coughing subsided. Gotta grab a mask, he thought and added it to his mental list. Beep.

Behind him, in lane three, Lucas, aged two, sat in the seat of his mom’s cart. She, too, was making a rushed stop on the way home, like Nicole, for diapers, milk, and eggs. Beep, beep, beep.

Eggs, she thought bitterly, are more precious than gold these days. Lukey smiled up at her, and her thoughts shifted. She smiled back. Just then, Lukey, who had not been alive and was too young to be taught how to cough or sneeze into his elbow during the COVID-19 pandemic, let loose a mighty, mucus-filled sneeze. It covered the handle of his mom’s cart, his shirt front, and sprayed the can of soup in Robin’s cart.

Robin removed his face from his elbow and smiled at the young boy. “Bless,” he said. Lukey grinned toothily at him. His mom apologized, “Lukey, cover your mouth.” Robin waved them off and finished checking out.

The next time he coughed, walking through his front door, he coughed into his open hand. He thought nothing of it. He was home, after all. He wiped his mouth, unpacked his groceries, and settled in to watch TV, rest, and drink fluids.

Thirty-six hours later, he would be dead.

As Nicole scanned her pasta through lane two, she could almost feel the warmth of Charlie’s little arms around her neck. She couldn’t wait to tell Chris about the new project.

Before she left the store, she rubbed a protective layer of Vaseline on her cracked top lip with her finger. When she got home, she washed her hands, then hugged Charlie and kissed Chris.

COVID-19 had taught them all to be very careful.

At the grocery store, the principal of the local high school is also running in to grab some essentials. Without knowing it, she selects the cart Lukey has recently covered with his sneeze. Tomorrow, she will wake feeling slightly flu-ish. She will brush it off as the start of a head cold and go into work.

It’s a big day.

She is leading the senior class on a field trip to the United Nations.

Lane two at the grocery store will see fifty-two more customers before the night is over and the scanner is sanitized.

The germ-y cart will carry groceries for six more customers.

Beep. Beep. Beep.