It’s been about a month since we’ve gone into full lockdown. Presumably longer since anyone had any real-life social interaction, from sharing a meal to anything more. I think this may be my fifth week of hanging out with the same two people, my flatmates – and our thirty-two plants, spending many of my afternoons on our tiny, walled in patio, pushing our backs against the brick to catch some rays.
As isolation drags on, the sun is getting hotter and hotter, and so are people. Suddenly it seems like the perfect time to reach out to that guy you almostdated two years ago, or your colleague who in retrospect looked very handsome while preparing his lunch in the kitchen area. Didn’t you once exchange a laugh, a look? No harm in sending an innocent message over work chat, just to check in. Ask him how his day was, enquire if he’s taken up a new hobby, or taught himself a new language. Professional, but cute. And it is cute, for a minute or two. But then you find yourself complimenting his profile picture, bringing up the idea of going for drinks once we’re all let out, sending one too many emoji’s. Did you even like him before corona, or just because of corona?
Then that other guy texts you back (the one you held hands with, once, over two years ago), and he seems slightly confused but flattered you’re thinking of him. You definitely liked him before corona, right?
And then Hinge matches you with someone, and then another, and another, and another.
God it’s hot outside. Perhaps we should go back in.