A few days before our longtime next-door neighbor moved out of his New York City loft in late March, he texted us and asked if we would look after his fish and some plants, since he could not move into his new place for a while. “Sure,” we texted back. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere.” Our history of looking after things is spotty, but he needed a hand, and I thought it might be time to skill up.
His home and ours have only ever been separated by a semipermeable membrane anyway. We share a common outdoor space. We have each other’s spare keys, use each other’s appliances, have permission to just go in and borrow anything when the other is away. When we had young kids in the home, we hosted big pancake breakfasts. As they got older, we would let each other know when we could smell them smoking pot. We had a standing invitation to his dinner parties.
So he brought over his fish and plants and borrowed our ladder. He was masked, because of the movers. We were not, because we were just lolling about; it was pure luck that we were even dressed. It was a quick handover. We didn’t touch. Two days later, we came down with COVID-19 symptoms. It was bad, especially for my spouse. Two weeks later, our neighbor texted to say he thought he had it too. Continue reading.