Somehow, with all the hand-washing and not touching his face, Gary has still caught a cold.
“I have a cold!” Gary pouted. “And I have no Dr. Pepper.”
”Poor sweet baby,” I said, obediently.
”Poor sweet baby?” I said, confused.
”You have to go out to the grocery store and get me Dr. Pepper.”
“You have to wait until Wednesday for them to deliver Dr. Pepper, you mean.”
Feeble, sickly Gary disappeared and was replaced by healthy, full volume Gary.
”FINE FINE I’LL GO GET IT MYSELF.”
”No, Gary, I’ll go. You’ve risked your life going out to the grocery for your parents for months.” (He wants them to get exactly what they asked for.) Plus, I thought, you’ll see what it’s like to worry just because someone has gone to the grocery store and you picture them touching all the dairy department door handles then rubbing their mouth.
I wore shoes, jeans, and a bulky sweatshirt. (I think we all know this is code for “no bra.”) I also wore a mask, as you do. Well, as I do. Well, as only half of the people in the grocery did. Only half wore masks, or bothered to keep six feet away. I held my breath when the No-Maskers passed and I clutched my little alcohol wipe like my life depended on it.
Ironically, the classic Dr. Pepper that Gary wanted is entirely unavailable in our region. Gary is having to make do with some new Cream Soda / Dr. Pepper mutation.
In thanks for my sacrifice, Gary has taken to wearing a mask and staying six feet from me in our house. I am okay with this.