Week two of lock-down in New Zealand. Borders closed. My sometime, sporadic new Spanish lover, who I haven’t seen for two weeks, gets in touch.
When we saw each other last, his country, already in lock-down for three weeks, had mounting deaths and scary statistics.
His father had broken the curfew in Spain – his friend calls him to tell him “I saw your dad out in the square” He calls is sister, who says his dad is now locked in the house. His dad is an elderly businessman, whose large business, has been closed because of the virus, 80 workers now at home.
“Hi Karen, how are you? Hope everything is good.” He says.
I’m happy to hear his family and friends are ok.
“I’m ok. How’s your dad? Is he still under control?” I laugh.
“Nah – he’s going every day at 6am to the factory. He can’t not work. His whole life is work – he told me ‘Fuck the Coronavirus – when my time comes my time comes.’”
Back and forth we chat…both missing intimacy.
“Can we crash the rules for a night?” he asks.
I laugh nervously in reply.
“No way, right?” he says.
“Ummm…. What you thinking? commando styles, through the park over the back fence??.” I answer.
Both knowing it’s wrong, wrong, wrong, but still sorely tempted.