Tragicomic Vignettes in the Time of COVID-19

The day to day has dissolved and reformed itself, and everything feels not quite right.

An old man struggles to drill into a pothole by the side of the road. A young man brings him a sandwich and a glass of water. The younger one kisses the worker on the head and leaves without either having said a word. The older one has only the dripping of sweat on his wrinkled brow, framed by a guileless, toothless grin.

There is a mask on the ground by the side of the road, splayed open. The inside is colored red with a stain — of lipstick or of blood.

A big dog rests by the wall of the park. His legs twitch and kick slightly while he sleeps, and his tail wags continuously. The dead leaves rustle under him.

A young man is making funny faces. He contorts his eyes and the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, and the disturbance can be traced through the mouth and the chin. Though all is concealed by a mask, all is revealed in the ripples of skin. He is not done yet, so he adds his forearm to the strange dance, wrist contorted to push the hand away. He rubs his face in all sorts of places, looking for a way in, until his efforts are for naught — his mask has fallen off from the abuse.

Birds gather on the branches of a fir tree, while an old woman reaches out and places seeds on her window sill. One branch extends further than all the rest, and several birds are lining up, with the one in front feasting on fresh seeds. Once they eat, they descend to the lower window of another apartment flat, and do their dirty business in little splatters of white, painting the concrete how they will.

A little boy is running down the street when his mask comes off. He treads over it, leaving marks on the medical blue and white, then turns around to jump on it some more. As he picks it up to put it back on, his mother rushes and shouts, revealing a brand new mask — this time black, more sleek reserved for special occasions — from the large, tattered bag over her shoulder. He drops the soiled mask where he is, and runs back to reunite with his mother.

Three people emerge from a building with hands held palms-up, as if praying to God. They take a left turn to wait by a window — illuminated with soft, homely light — near the main door. Here is a man that emerges after two impatient knocks, ready with a bottle in his hand. He pours the contents of the bottle on the three pairs of hands, collectively held in reverence, palms-up, as if this recluse of a man were now God. He pours until the liquid drips on the floor, and the people jump back to avoid getting splashed on their clothes. With that, the ritual is complete, and the man recedes back into his cave, going from God to a homebody in a rehearsed process of necessity.

A teen girl and boy are sitting half-reclined on the grass in the park, where roses give off a sweet perfume from near the greenhouse behind the fence. They are talking and laughing and holding tight. As they lean towards each other for a kiss, they remove their masks, letting the strings tangle with their fingers, pressed into the ground. After some time, they lean back and put on their masks once more — they, too, dancing their strange dance.