Flash Fiction: F*** COVID
©Amiko Li
Remember January 1, 2020? The year was supposed to be lit. It was supposed to be my year: it was supposed to be everyone’s year, collectively. But the months rolled by, evolving into the horror show that is now halfway through August.
Graduation came and went without a party nor gathering. No high fives or hugs. Just six feet to mark the emptiness of my past four years. And summer does not feel like summer when beaches are closed and barbecues are cancelled. Ordinarily, there would always be college to look forward to. But closed dorms and online classrooms also mute that experience.
Essential items when leaving the house now: wallet, phone, car keys, mask. Social distancing stickers are like confetti everywhere, littering shopping malls and drug stores and supermarkets. Hand sanitizer dispensers are the new gumball machines — dispensing false handfuls of safety.
The masks are insufferable. I can not hear you. Are you smiling or just squinting, trying to read the sign saying that this mask is now required by law to enter the premises?
Can we all mutually agree to skip the rest of this year? Enter 2021, or even 2022. Why not just fast forward the next four years?
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