Six-Foot Window

We sat in his car, eating takeout from our favorite burger stop. A place where we usually sat down to eat and chat about life, love, the universe, and other philosophies. Now we were served from a window the restaurant had never opened where there was a sign that told us to call a number to ask that our food be brought out. 

Everyone politely stayed at least six feet apart. The distance and anxiety between each person was palpable. I wanted to fill it, to escape, to embrace the gaping wounds between us. When a man came to the window to leave our food out for us, he clearly tried to smile, but he looked pained too. 

In the car, juice and onions and bits of avocado covered my hands and my dress. We were offered no napkins. The mess was everywhere. We sat eating in the shadow of some building that was closed on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon in the middle of an international city of commerce and creativity. It could have been a Tuesday at 4am. Everything was empty and quiet. Everywhere.

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