Public life became a bore, and then it became an impossibility. We stayed in, read a lot, wrote long form. I learned more songs on the piano, my beloved picked up the cello again. We used a clothes line to dry our clothes and grew garlic, big zucchinis, and, after various failed attempts, cherry tomatoes. We walked to the store and tried all the different kinds of cheeses. We were in no hurry. We found all of the pretty little spots in our neighbourhood; the perfectly framed sunset, the glimpse of the water, the place where there’s always a black cat who is so friendly, who loves me, probably. The three of us, our little ecosystem, found the one city block where flower petals cover the ground, and no one ever disturbs them. 

We had time to debate. We watched an arthouse film and discussed themes over dinner. Our opinions often differed; once I felt so emphatic I leapt up from the dinner table, ran into the other room, and grabbed a book to make my point. We lay in bed and listened to the quiet. We tried new kinds of wine. We found that fresh sheets on the bed can feel like sunlight, that our minds were ever-changing, that we were oceanic in our depths. We were alarmed at our more shallow, animalistic qualities: we wanted better tomatoes than we had, we wanted more sandwiches with cheese, we didn’t always want to share. We didn’t check in with people. We left the phones plugged into the wall, went into the yard, and turned on the sprinkler for no reason. We found that only one of us could actually do a cartwheel. 

We had neighbours who would come say hello. We had friends who were very human, who kept calling; friends who were tall, unexpectedly beautiful purple flowers; new friends who were 25 birds, who sang to us in the morning; friends who were black cats, who made us feel lucky whenever we saw them. 

When someone invited us to something that was happening, and it didn’t seem boring, we weighed our options. We took a cab to the venue. We listened to the flow of conversation around us. We drank the wine. We laughed when everyone else laughed. And public life had earned its place again. 

I wanted to go out every weekend and every other weekday. I wanted to meet everyone. I dreamt of all the conversations I would have. I watched an arthouse film the night before going somewhere, so I would have something to talk about, and it would be fresh in my mind. I listened to old music and remembered the curiosity I felt when I was young. And now here I was, with all these options. 

Now I could find out what other people know; what everyone else has been doing. How we were all coming along, the status of our zucchinis, the results of our respective dinner conversations. I can’t wait, I told my beloved, to hear all the nuances of everyone’s discussions—the grooves they formed slowly, together, away from me. I felt we had all accomplished something. I couldn’t wait to find out what it was.

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Amieka Akili (she/they) is a queer abolitionist writer living in the Pacific Northwest. She recently debuted an interactive poetry piece at Base Camp Studios in Seattle. You can find her staying up too late in a Blood on the Clocktower lobby.