By: Emily Oliver
You call it love but I call it that disease that racks the entire being, an incubation period of how long it takes eyes to meet. Then the symptoms begin to kick in. At first just a tingling sensation. Accelerated heart rate. Sweaty palms. A bit of mania. Then it floods your body, consumes your thoughts, and leaves you with irreparable damage in the end. I’ve done what I can to keep from becoming its next victim. I’ve worn my mask, poured disinfectant over my thoughts, quarantined my heart. But your leg brushes against mine on Bus 2, Route 5, and damn, I guess you were more infectious than I thought.