“No shit.” Danny is watching me, his jaw seemingly suspended half-open.
“Oh, come on. Like you couldn’t have predicted it.”
“Did you?”
In Berkeley there is a restaurant called Revival. Upscale place. We’ve
been. It’s good. When the pandemic started, a mural went up on one of its
outside walls: “We do this together,” it reads. Feel-good sentiment made to
sell fancy food. The rest of us look warily at each other over our masks: for God’s sake, don’t breathe in my direction.
This moment kind of feels like that: one trying to drag the other into
a story. I’m not having it. “Actually,” I say, “no.”
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