Description
You open the door to your one-room apartment, hefting its weight with a booted foot, and lumber yourself into the room. You are carrying several grocery bag and a lunchbox, which you unceremoniously crash onto a nearby counter. You move back to the door and secure it with several locking mechanisms. You begin the lengthy process of disrobing. Although somewhat inconvenient, the pandemic has afforded you a providential opportunity to complete your work unfettered. In any other period of time, you would look ridiculous, but this is somehow acceptable as normal. You don't have to worry about being recognized or your face captured on video.
First, you remove a pair of sunglasses and a poncho, followed by a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves. You gently place these items in a pile on the counter. You kick off tall black rain boots by the door. At one point, you even thought about purchasing a gas mask for the runs. Instead, you remove your two surgical masks and rub your lower face. You would guess you're also wearing about 3 days worth of stubble. You feel more human now, in a faded black henly, denim jeans, and bare feet.
You move toward a battered floral-print couch and a large unstained wooden coffee table in front of it displaying an eclectic array of objects. A fifth of cheap whisky is open, and your taste buds start to react with moisture in response to the visual trigger, just like Pavlov's dogs. You pick it up, salute a terrarium across the room housing a sleeping leopard gecko, and mainline the brown fluid until you can't feel the burn. You set it down on the table and cannonball onto the couch. You roll up your left sleeve to reveal a thickly-drawn circular tattoo the width of your forearm. The inside of the circle is not inked, but it is filled with tan skin, which starkly contrasts to pale white skin outside the perimeter. You pick up a small UV flashlight, which you activate and aim at the center of your tattoo. You nervously fumble with window blinds before moving a sheet of black paper away, allowing you an unobstructed view of people walking the streets below. You count each individual walking the street. When you get to 100, you turn off the flashlight, fiddle with an opened pack of cigarettes, tip one into your mouth, and light it with a Zippo.
After a few minutes, you hear a knock, followed by someone yelling "FEDECKS" in a foreign accent. Still holding the cigarette remnant in your mouth, you move to the door and listen to the footsteps of the delivery person grow quiet and evaporate. You then unlatch the myriad of door locks, turn the knob, and pull the door open to reveal a package at the entry. You pick it up. It's a normal enough package, but, next to your name, a smiley face has been scrawled in red marker.