Pat came over swathed in a bandanna. I had my mask on because I needed it to find the restroom, which is what the CDC recommends or so is my understanding.
"Can someone help me pee? Please?"
Once Pat was safely inside my apartment, he carefully unwound his mummy wrap. It took him several minutes before he revealed himself in all his panambisexual glory.
"Now I can see your pretty face," I said. I wildly ripped off my own mask. "And now you can see my pretty face."
Pat screamed.
"Sorry, sorry," I said. "I'll put it back on."
"No, it's okay. I'm just not used to seeing your, uh, good looks."
"So many challenges in this pandemic. Right? But maybe it'll be over soon."
"Whoa, pump the hand sanitizer. I don't think so."
"Yeah." I sighed, calendar months and months flashing before my weary eyeballs. "You're probably right."
We sat down to our hearty meal of Latin and our lesson in enchiladas.
"Speaking of challenges," loqui ego, "I've actually taken to watching some baseball. I like the cardboard cutouts of people in the stands--though even they seem supremely bored. But it's a good idea. Maybe I can make a cardboard cutout version of me at the library. One with a prominent cleft chin, for texture. It'll be propped at the circulation desk while I enjoy an iced mocha in my car, heh heh."
Pat seemed dubious. "Will your cutout be wearing a mask?"
"Hm, I guess it better. We can't be too safe. The other day I was out walking alone and someone I knew from the library asked me why I wasn't wearing a mask. I told her I like spraying my lethal mouthmist over the entire area. It's sort of like cropdusting, but with death."
We returned to our lesson about Trimalchio, a vulgarian who may or may not have had short fingers in the first century AD. At one point Pat interrupted his reading to talk about how to make a new penis.
"I don't want to be a dick," I lied, "but maybe we should concentrate on Trimalchio here first, and then..."
"It's in the Latin," Pat said. He pointed out the pseudo-bawdy passage. "That word, buccam. It means cheek, and that's how they make a urethra for your new penis. They call it a buccal graft, taking some tissue from the inside of your cheek so you can make a monster shaft."
"Oh," I said. "Well... partial credit."
This led Pat to talk about how he wanted to do some kungfu fightin' in another state so he could get adopted there and get his magic flute sewn on if you catch my melodious tootling.
"But now that I have to do social distancing at my karate classes, I have to put a naked arm bar on a ghost..."
"Ugh! I don't want to hear the term social distancing ever again. Not social, not distance. If you're walking in the woods, you can say, oh, look at that round twig off in the expanse of space. Or: that g-d Bernie Sanders is a g-d something-ist."
Pat stared.
"Sorry," I said. "I think my mask has been cutting off my oxygen. All day at the library I have to wear one as I put books into quarantine and then take some of them down to the station for questioning. Sometimes I rough them up a little before I shelve them."
Pat stared. I realized he'd gone to the bathroom and replaced himself with a cardboard cutout. But that didn't stop me.
"At least there's light at the end of the chud. NBA basketball is starting again, and now we can all rejoice in some real sports. My brother has been counting down the days until Tacko Fall and Bol Bol fall fall into each other. But leave it to my mom to pee on his parade. She was quick to point out that fifteen players have already tested positive.
"Thanks, Mom!"
*trombone*
"Mom also had to point out that people are experiencing long-term organ damage after they get it, ha ha. Man, she livens up any pancake stack!"
Pat was back. "Sorry, what's Trimalchio up to now...?"
"Feeling glad he wasn't born two thousand years later."
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