Hand sanitizer stung.

The slice through skin, torn as a thorn scraped through, now just another thing to ignore amidst the mild haze of tensions.  Going out in public had become something of a walk through a minefield.  And he’d know what that felt like.  Every touch was a moment of compromise, like every step through the humid jungle.  Wash your hands. Don’t touch your face.  Shave every day.  Clean your gun.  Watch your step.

It wasn’t like anything was all that different.  Being alone, seeking the solace of your own company, the company of memories and, whiskey, was second nature.  Going out in public had always been difficult.  Well, not always, he thought.  There was the before and the after.  The after is where and when life now existed and, in the after, shopping for groceries was a far cry from comfortable.  Whether that shopping was now, in the pandemic, or before when it was just life and not wanting to talk or chat or pretend to smile.  

Wipe the cart, look down. Move. It’s been a week since there was any chicken in residence on the cooler shelf.  Now there was chicken and no pork.  Not seen lamb in a month or two.  Steak, well, that’s the freezer at home with half a steer. It’d be easier to live on the beef but for boredom and the love of cooking. 

A couple weeks back, they’d lived on nothing but oso bucco because, in the system of layering the freezer, they’d hit the shanks.  And when you’re shanked, there’s nothing better.

Chicken, check.  Greens.  Mushrooms.  Kale.  Onions.  Garlic.  Orange, cilantro, apple.  Chianti, cheap box white, rye.  Milk, parmigiana, eggs (because he always did hate raising chickens), rice noodles, ice cream. More than enough food for one, but he’d never liked cooking for just himself. 

“Cooking for one? It’s pathetic,” he’d always said, “Even loneliness deserves to be fed.”

Mumbling, “the necessities,” he stumbled into the bread aisle.  Shelves less than bare.

“Jim?”

Damnation, Jim thought as he turned and saw Bobbi Talbot, who politely stood 6 feet away, blinking green eyes and sun-streaked damned red hair.  He couldn’t help noticing her hair; it nearly glowed with some hidden, unknown power source. They’d always gotten along well, he and her hair.  The denim work jeans and “I heart my farmer” shirt were bonus round.

“Yeah, uh, hey there, Bobbi.”

Bobbi’s blinks suddenly teared up as she whispered, “They came and took Chester,” blinks now quiet sobs, “just showed up and took him like not even a phone call, I don’t even know who they were, but they took him and I, Jim, fuck.” She exhaled, “I don’t know how they found us.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Was he sick?”

“No…nono.”

“Did you stick to protocol?”

“What? Of course,” green eyes suddenly glaring.

“How many of them?”

“Five.”

“Helicopter?”

She nods her answer.  

“Yeah, thought so, heard one.”

Bobbi’s silent sobs grabbed a sudden choking sound. “QUIET!” Jim urged with panic in his whisper.

“Yeah, damn it, I just, and I can’t even hug anyone.”

“Yeah, tough times, Bobbi, tough times.”

Bobbi tried to smile, and it looked like all the skin on her face mutinied into a series of desperate cartwheels across a trampoline.

“Bobbi, sorry, I got to go, wish you the best.”

Bobbi looked down as if a ghost haunted her shoulders with sudden weight, turned away, and then turned back and turned away again.

The ride home was even quieter than usual.

Under the Hill