Quarantined, Day -2: “Un dernier calîn avant la fin du monde ?”
“Dude, shit is hitting the fan,” Omar said as he shut the front door behind him, throwing the keys to the apartment into the empty vase on the mantel shelf beside the door.
“Yeah man. Maybe we need to think about stockpiling a bit,” Timothy replied, getting off the couch to move into the kitchenette.
“How long do you think it’ll last?,” Omar asked as he shrugged off his coat and joined Timothy in the kitchen to set the kettle to boil. Beside him, he noticed the pile of unwashed dishes from two nights before. “Uh oh,” he thought to himself before looking away before Timothy noticed.
Timothy noticed. He didn’t say anything, but made a mental note to clean up when Omar headed down to go grocery shopping, which he knew he would in a few minutes. Throwing the ball into the other court, he said, “Angèle isn’t going to turn up again anytime soon, is she?”
It was Omar’s turn to look away, flustered. Angèle was the girl he had been seeing the past two months. She had been over the night before. As always, Timothy probably knew they had had sex. And that he hadn’t lasted long. Paper thin walls, courtesy Parisian housing. “I haven’t talked to her yet. But I’ll tell her we can’t see each other. Not till things calm down a bit.”
“Want to read what the government says later this evening?,” Timothy asked as he slipped past his flatmate into the living room.
“Sure,” said Omar. The clink of the mug as it hit the sharp steel of the tea filter was followed by the hiss of boiling water and the sweet aroma of pistachio and cinnamon crisping the air. They both knew Timothy had been stealing some of it every evening; he kept leaving the soggy dregs in the recycling vat with impunity, but neither of them had talked about it yet. “Great, catch you at 8!,” said Timothy as he closed the living room door behind him.
The moment he heard Omar’s bedroom door close, he threw himself on the bed and pulled out his phone.
“Has he asked about the tea yet?,” said a Whatsapp message from Shirley. He sighed, throwing his phone back under the pillow. He had hoped his brother would have messaged, but he hadn’t. He settled into the pillows. He never felt entirely at ease when he knew Omar was around; luckily the Assistant Director didn’t spend much time indoors at all. He couldn’t blame him; if all he had was a room, he wouldn’t be holed up in it all day, either. Luckily for them both, Omar’s job kept him out at all sorts of odd hours. Turns out this evening wasn’t going to be one of them.
He listened intently; if he kept very still, he could hear his flatmate slurping his tea. It drove him a little mad how he knew exactly how long it would take him before he got to the end. Sighing, he whipped out his phone again, swiping away the notification from Shirley and opening the news. He had spent all day speaking about Covid-19 with friends and family. The French weren’t taking this seriously; everyone knew that, even though Italy already resembled a country under siege. He had spent all day indoors, scrolling through instagram stories of idiots at Buttes Chaumont, Sacré Coeur and Canal Saint Martin. Every single picture was packed with people. There was no chance this thing was going to go away anytime soon. And the government wasn’t going to throw in the towel yet. He threw his phone aside and listened again.
The fucker still hadn’t finished his tea.
Timothy inhaled deeply. It was going to be one of those evenings.
After what seemed like an eternity, Omar slowly creaked into the living room again. Beyond the drapes to his bed, Timothy heard him walk past the threshold, turn left into the kitchen, fill his mug with water (why did he always fill everything up with water before abandoning it to come around and wash later?) and leave. A few seconds later, he heard him shrug his coat back on and step out.
Timothy sighed in relief. He was good for an hour, maybe more. He grabbed his phone again, opened Grindr, shot a quick message, tiptoed to the living room and left his front door open. The guy knew what to do.
Half an hour later, (because Omar wasn’t the only man on Earth who would sometimes finish early,) Timothy was tracing circles on the back of his hookup’s wrist while he dozed. He smiled, realizing this was at least the 20th time in as many days that they had had sex. Despite the fact that it had been brief, it was still great sex; the guy usually took his time and was effortlessly tender; something Timothy loved about him. Right then, the door clicked open. “Fils de pute,” he muttered. Luckily, his regular let out a loud snore, muffling his curses. When Omar slammed the door shut behind him, the guy woke up with a start.
“Je me suis endormi ?,” he asked groggily. Timothy kissed him quickly; “Oui. Don’t worry about it. It’s ok. I had given you quite a workout.” They both chuckled and kissed. Behind the living room, Timothy heard Omar cleared his throat, twice, a sign that he needed to use the kitchen. Timothy resisted the urge to throw something at the door, quickly pulling pants on before going to open it. He heard the clinking of a belt and saw from the corner of his eyes that the guy was hurriedly putting his clothes on as well. He gave him a hot second and just as he was shrugging his pullover across his chest, he opened the door.
“Hey, I thought you were sleeping, I just wanted to put this stuff in the-ah,” he said, as he noticed the man shoving his clothes in place and walking towards him. “Sorry, didn’t know you had company.”
“That’s fine,” Timothy said, smile painfully hitched in place. “Omar, je te présente…” he stopped mid-sentence when he realized he didn’t know the guy’s name.
“Giovanni, enchanté Omar,” he said. Omar stuck out his arm and Giovanni blushed. “Best he didn’t shake your hand, I think,” Timothy said trying to not let the blush in his voice creep into his face. “Oh, ok. Yeah, sure,” said Omar and he yanked his hand away, blushing as well. He dragged his gaze down and carried his groceries into the living room while Timothy and his date made their way to the door.
“Un dernier calîn avant la fin du monde ?,” Giovanni said as he smiled his crooked smile at Timothy. Timothy laughed and they hugged; he loved the smell of his neck and the feeling of his hair in his hands. They kissed even more tenderly than usual before Timothy let him out the door.
Walking dreamily back through the tiny corridor into the living room, his pleasant thoughts were interrupted by a full-frontal of Omar’s peeking backside as he shoved a packet of ham ungracefully into the fridge. Timothy rolled his eyes as he trotted back to his bed and pulled the drapes shut behind him.
“Sorry, man, I didn’t know you were having someone over,” Omar said from somewhere behind his blunting maroon curtains. “Don’t worry about it,” Timothy mumbled.
“What?,” said Omar, drawing closer to the curtains. He could see his outline beyond the barrier and for a brief second he considered throwing something at him.
“I said, don’t worry about it.”
“Sure, okay,” came from behind the curtains. He saw his form plodding away. Timothy could hear him as he made his way back to the kitchen to heat his dinner. Omar’s meals were usually elaborate ones cooked over whatever the weekend looked like for him that particular week; the scent of biryani now wafted from beyond the curtains. Timothy’s mouth watered; no matter how much he stole his tea, he knew to draw the line at solid food. He hadn’t tasted this batch of biryani yet since Omar hadn’t offered. Somethings, at least, were sacred.
Eventually, the sounds of the clinking of the fork and knife along with the slow chewing brought him to cast aside his thin curtain and surface to reheat his Picard dinner. Five minutes later, they were seated at the table together in silence. In between massive mouthfuls, Timothy laughed at the shenanigans of his favourite Derry Girls; he was on Season 2 for what was at least the third time now. Beside him, he saw Omar smiling at his screen now and then. Timothy relaxed a little and bit into the biryani that Omar had finally wanted to share: he had had sex, he was watching his favourite show, his roommate was around but was okay, honestly, kept the place clean enough, was kind, always got him sweets from India when he went back home. It wasn’t his fault if he really couldn’t stand most people. He felt his phone vibrating on the table. “That’s my alarm for the announcement by old Edouard Philippe,” he told Omar. “Let’s look.” He opened up Le Monde and his jaw dropped a few inches. Both of them read in silence for a minute.
“Pubs, restaurants, public spaces, all closed. Gatherings of more than 5 people strongly advised against. Working from home for everyone as much as possible. What. The. Fuck. Is this shit constitutional?”
“That’s the French in you. I’ll think you’ll find that it is,” said Omar, lopsided grin in place. “What’s more, no one’s been respecting the instructions the past few days, which just means that the number of cases are going to multiply. We’re heading for a full-blown Italy meltdown.”
“Ok, but you’ve bought tickets for India for next month. C’est n’importe quoi. All because 5 old people will die. Okay, fine, a few more,” he added quickly, seeing the look on Omar’s face. “And I know it’s important that we quarantine, which I’ve been doing, it’s just all a lot, y’know?”
“I know.”
There was a pause. Then-
“What are you going to do about India?”
“Guess I’ll just have to stay here.”
“They’re going to enforce confinement soon. We’ll be stuck together.”
“Seems like it.”
They looked at each other in silence for a second before Omar’s phone began to ring. Frowning, he took it in his hands and looked at it. His face blanched when he saw the number on it.
Timothy watched as he picked up the phone and listened to the short syllables Omar shot off in Urdu. As his flatmate’s face grew more and more lined, Timothy felt his own anxiety mounting. Finally, he ended the call.
“What? What is it?,” he asked Omar.
“It’s my mother. They think she’s got the Coronavirus.”
***
Part 2: Quarantined, Day 0: All Roads Lead to Rome
Part 3: Quarantined, Day 1: Flesh Wounds
Part 4: Quarantined, Day 2: The Wild Widow
Part 5: Quarantined, Day 3: Belonging
