Leave the house, going left, left for my daily walk, all that we’re allowed now. Trip over a sleeping dog, though it wasn’t sleeping. More like: lying-in-wait. Stumble, regain posture, upright again, kick at dog but it’s left.
Have no idea what day it is. Lost track last week, or perhaps last month. Some time around the time the call came, or the email came. That time. Closing down for the duration. Calling time. That’s it then. No more conferences, no more monthly service charges, no more arguments with the IT section, no more administrative assistants to schmooze. Handshakes done. Hugs are over. Avoid humans.
Streets full of people walking uphill to the park or downhill from the park. Most have a dog. Setters, spaniels, bulldogs. Any dog will do. Provide an excuse to be out. I should have a dog. Look around for the lying-in-wait dog, but it’s not lying-in-wait for me. Keep going uphill.
I will be grey-haired, going into this goodnight. I will be walking uphill tomorrow, and the day after. Phone bulges in pocket. Tracking. To make sure of us.
Person with dog approaches. I swerve out onto the grassy verge, out onto the road, wherever I have to swerve unto to keep my distance. To make sure. Hold breath so no droplets are breathed in. Then a deep breath to test lungs are working. Fine for now. Don’t like the sound of ventilator. Of intubation. Wish to avoid both.
Here is the park. Here are the dogs. Here are the exercising people. Here am I. Sit on a green-painted bench, make sure no policeman is watching. Exercise is all we’re allowed now. Not sitting. Take out phone. Remember tracking. Put phone away in pocket again.
Overhead, a cockatoo screeches on a dead tree branch. Spreads wings as if flapping a cloak, cocks sulphur-yellow comb as if flirting, stares at me as if crazy. Screeches again with dizzy joy. Seeing the bird, I wish to be the bird. Wish to live in a tree, in the clear air.
Things are not. Going to get better. Life is going to go. Not uphill, not downhill, but in a completely different direction. Left turn.
Cockatoo has left. Allowed to go where it wants. Take a deep breath to check lung function. Fear of droplets. Walk home downhill. Until tomorrow. Same time, same place.
Annette Freeman is a writer living in Sydney, Australia. She has a Master of Creative Writing degree, and her short fiction has been published in a number of international and Australian literary journals. She is working on a novel set in the back-blocks of Tasmania.
W: https://afreemanwriter.wixsite.com/website
T: @sendchampagne