Pandemics ix (Never Ending Story)

George the Cat, with Avocado Heating Pad I Bought You

Dear Rob,

Consider this an Aubade Epistolary of sorts considering it is a little after 5AM while I begin this. I sleep so much through the day then stay awake until all of the KB-selected TV shows are over and then I come into my "room" (I love that I can delineate one side of my studio as the living room and the other as my bedroom purely based on the existence of that folding partition I purchased when I moved in) I find it hard to go to sleep again. I'm blaming the onset of August during what still feels Pandemic to me considering I've had little to no interaction with anyone (aside from that visit from Tyler when he and I sat on my couch and drank and watched dumb TV) and so sleep is my social interaction, you know, with myself.

I killed a moth today in my apartment. Two nights ago I went to close the curtains of one of my windows and the thing fluttered out and hastily disappeared...I don't know, to somewhere. I didn't see him all day yesterday so I gathered it was a hallucination however today he was just planted on one of my walls near the door. I tried to let him out by opening the door for a bit but he didn't respond and to be honest, I have no clue how the fucker got in here because none of my windows have openings large enough for him to have flown in (he was rather large.) What was weird is that the same night I started my new Aimee Bender novel, The Butterfly Lampshade, and in the 7th chapter the narrator explains to her mother that a dead butterfly was floating in a glass of water beneath her babysitter's butterfly lampshade and she went on to say that there were no windows open wide enough for a butterfly to have flown in. Of course, this is where the novel turns quite Aimee Bender and I can, having read her works enough, predict where this is all going, which is fine, since I adore Bender so much, but I of course drew a direct parallel between my moth and Bender's main character's butterfly. Only, the character swallows the glass of water with the dead butterfly in it whereas I murdered my moth. I expect harrowing dreams.

We haven't spoken since Friday morning circa 2AM when the lightning storm was happening and I couldn't sleep then. I know you are always up well until 2 and sometimes 3 so I texted you. You let me know that "the cat is hiding under the bed." I have no idea what you did all weekend, or if you saw people or didn't since I don't know the atmosphere of things with your friends right now. I don't know the current conditions of you and the wife, either, which always has me on emotional edge.You don't know a lot about me right now either, which has led me to dark corners in my mind wherein I wonder if I didn't just make you up altogether. I stare at the gifts you've given me which are on display in various locations in my apartment and wonder if I didn't buy those for myself. Then again there is a stack of handwritten items you've left me with: letters, cards, post-its, and I know I couldn't replicate that handwriting of yours so you *must* exist. And the handsome selfie you sent me when you got your hair cut for the first time in 6 months. 

But I'm lost, Robert. I lost myself and I lost you (temporarily or not) and it isn't just the virus as the cause. I still cannot fathom how someone could do this to someone and sleep soundly at night. Maybe you don't, I don't know. Maybe it eats at you, too. I know other things are eating at you and I have been trying quite determinedly to be patient, kind and understanding. I fantasize about amazing memories I have accrued with you (you? not you? a fictional character I call you?) to maintain some semblance of sanity, if I can muster up such a thing. Maybe I'll just order myself a straight jacket.

Well, I patiently await the outcome, and I am also looking forward to the reward of what will hopefully be a fantastic day of storms beginning early this morning and running through the afternoon.

Bender's new book opens with this:

I'm still asleep,

but meanwhile facts are taking place.

                    --Wislawa Szymborska, "Early Hour"

Love,

Kristin.

PS--No Fiona in me.