The only difference is that people stand and read my wear a mask sign. Then they put one on and come in and look at me and smile reassuringly. Their masks move and wrinkle up as they try to smile. Then they remember the code, ‘Quick, Ruth, go back.’
‘Why? What’ve we done?’
‘Do the phone thing.’
‘Oh God, where’s me phone?’
I have so many paper signs on the door that passers-by have to peer through, moving their heads from side to side to see what’s in there.
Sarah wears her mask over her eyes as well. Can’t be too careful.
The door opens to let somebody in, but a friend pulls them back out. ‘No need to go in there. We got our books last week. Leave it Ginny.’
I am asked, ‘Can I ask how long it is between vaccinations?’
I am told to try and keep my footing.
There are not many cars going past. No horns, and hardly any trucks. And nobody is standing in my doorway and talking so I can eavesdrop and write it all down. People stop and read my door signs for ages, but in silence, and they usually don’t come in.
The traffic on the road is subdued as though thinking about something.
There’s only one person over at the bus stop.
Locals come in to make sure I am all right. Because of this, I am.
Three people pass the window, moving slowly the way older people do, and shoulder to shoulder. ‘I know what to get him… what about one of those new skateboard things. The young people like those.’
I hope they get him one.
Illustration by Brian Kershisnik