Handsy by Jon Goode I used to think it was corny when couples talked about celebrating their one month, or three month, or six month anniversary. It seemed to signal to me that perhaps they'd never had a relationship that lasted longer than one, three, or six months, and thus this was truly a cause for gaiety. I imagined these people as bacchanal buddies, or euphoria addicts just looking for a reason to eat, drink, drug, and be merry. I mean honestly, I've got mold on cheese in the fridge that's thirty days old. I'm not proud of it, but I do! I thought these relative strangers, merrymaking due to thirty days of knowing their semi-significant other, to be exaggerant, extravagant fools. I thought that, until COVID-31. Now every day feels like an anniversary, a need to celebrate, a cause for jubilation. No one, with any sense, takes tomorrow for granted anymore. Few even take the next hour as a given. All it takes is a slip of your mask, a hole in your gloves, forgetting to put in your nose filters, ear screens, or microbe blocking contact lenses. All it takes is forgetting to wash your hands and then touching your face, eyes, nose; or neglecting to follow home decontamination protocols. The smallest mistake or lapse in vigilance and, well. The homeless used to carry signs that said, The End Is Near. Those that are left now they carry signs that say, The End Was Yesterday, You Can't Hand Sanitize The Past, You Can't Wash Your Hands Of ... Us. Us. I got us, Celia and I, reservations at Table for Two. It's our three week anniversary. Don't judge me. I read somewhere that anything you do for three weeks straight becomes a habit, and anything you do habitually, you can do forever. Celia and I are exactly twenty-one days into what might turn into a lifetime together. Albeit a lifetime isn't as long as it used to be. We matched and met, like most people do these days, on hAPPy Dating. Digi-dating has become the only way people meet. No one bumps into anyone anymore, figuratively or literally. All of the typical gathering spots, where singles used to mingle - bars, clubs, malls, even offices - closed after the CDC advised against groups larger than 250, then 100, then 25, now three or more, coming together at any one time, in any one space. Concerts are now held virtually. The band members all stand in front of green screens in their homes and are electronically edited and comingled together on a virtual stage. The concertgoers buy a ticket, log in and watch; or if they have Virt-You-All's (Virt for short) contact lenses, glasses or goggles, and a Virt-Life Suit, they can have an experience almost like being there. Which also happens to be Virt-You-All's latest slogan, "Like Being There." Which is better than their original slogan, "The Only Thing Realer Might Kill You." Accurate but not as catchy. What is true for concerts is also true of sporting events. Once the NBA, MLB, NCAA and every other major, minor, college, and high school sports league suspended play indefinitely, the players began to stand in front of green screens on omni-directional treadmills in their homes. Their movements are recorded and combined in real time on a virtual field, ring, court, or what have you. You can buy floor seats, mid-level, or nose bleeds and have an experience that directly aligns itself with your spending. No matter what, however, everyone, the patrons and players, do everything alone, in their homes, in an effort to avoid contracting, and to work toward stopping the spread of the virus. So the chances of meeting someone outside of digi-dating is somewhere between nil, no, zero, and none. The hAPPy Dating algorithm said Celia and I had a 72% chance of possibly marrying, coupled with a 28% chance of definitely succumbing to COVID-31. So there was no time to waste. We got online and talked, laughed, cried, wined, and dined via SkyMe. She told me about her greatest triumphs. I told her about my greatest fears. She told me about her darkest nights. I told her about my brightest days. We understood and bonded with each other instantly. We sympathized and empathized via SkyMe every night, for a few hours, for an entire week. We discovered that we were what the young folks call Sole Mates, people willing to Heli-Car a mile in the other person's shoes. I told her I loved her after that first week. She told me she loved me after a week and a half. We went to second base virtually in Pear's xxX-Box on the night we said I love you at the same time. Jinx! It seemed written in the stars, or at least gave us a superstition fueled excuse. We both put on our skin thin, ultra-absorbent, intimacy undergarments, our Virt-Life Suits, and touched and held each other across the miles, from the safety of our own homes. This is how intimacy is done. No one can risk skin to skin contact, or the exchange of fluids. That's like playing Russian Roulette with a Derringer. No, no one does that. You either sit in the seclusion of your homes and wear gloves, goggles, absorbs, and a Virt-Life Suit; or you sit a safe distance across the room from each other, usually with a flexiwall between you, and describe what you'd like to do to the other person while that person, with a gloved hand, engages in auto-arousal until completion. That is unless you're rich. The rich have twin, hermetically sealed beds, separated by a micro-thin, body compliant, e-lastic sheath. It allows them to get close enough to feel each other's warmth, and even enter each other, without ever touching skin to skin. It's a very, very, expensive condom. As you might imagine, due to all of this, birth rates are down. All fertilization is done in labs. All babies gestated in, tech giant, Cadabra's Womb-Manned Machines, or as they are called by people keyboard squawking on Noir Chirper, Faux-Lopian Tubes. The babies are emerged after nine months. The mother's can't breastfeed because their bodies aren't producing milk. They were never pregnant. The children are instead given a vitamin enriched, steroid infused, nutritional supplement. Cadabra keeps the children in a sterile environment for at least two years, so that they are immunized, some say indoctrinated, and prepared for the viral dangers of the world. Parents can visit, daily if they'd like, but aren't allowed to touch the children with their bare hands during that time. It's for everyone's safety. Unfortunately there is a high infant mortality rate during the first year. No one is sure of the cause. Some speculate it's the lack of a mother's touch, a mother's warmth, mother's milk, mother's voice, mother's love. Scientists have ruled that out and dubbed it ludicrous. Tonight at Table For Two will be the first time Celia and I have met in person. It's risky. Some never chance it. Some couples date, marry, and divorce without ever once having been in the same room. There are even those who have developed debilitating anxiety when faced with the prospect of having to leave their homes and interact with people live and in-person. Those folks used to be called agoraphobic but are mostly referred to today as Innies. Then there is digi-dating phenomenon known as Puffer-Fishing. This is when someone blows themselves up to be someone they're not. They use software to present online as far more attractive than they are, or as another race, or gender. A Puffer Fish will never want to do a face to face. I think Celia and I both want to ensure we're not being puffer'd, and so we agreed to dinner. I arrive at Table For Two a few minutes early.

I arrive at Table For Two a few minutes early. I look at the sign affixed to the door that reads, No Mask, No Gloves, No Nose Filters, No Service. More and more places seem to be posting these gentle reminders. You're expected to wear a mask to the restaurant, remove it to place the food in your mouth, and replace it before you even begin to chew. My cousin Vincent celebrated his one week anniversary with Anika here. He didn't replace his mask after every bite. He actually waited until they were about to leave to put his mask back on. He received an in app message later letting him know he was no longer welcome to dine at that location. Anika broke up with him two days later. He celebrated his one week anniversary with Brooke last week, at a different Table For Two. He put his mask back on after every bite, almost before the fork could deposit the peppercorn crusted Salmonlapia into his mouth. I do a retinal scan at the door to confirm my identity. There's a small red light flashing just to the right of the scanner to denote that the room is still occupied. I look through the window at the front of the restaurant and see the couple that had the reservation before ours leaving through the rear exit. Once the door closes and locks behind them a fast drying disinfectant mist is sprayed over the entire room via a sprinkler system. An employee, dressed in a safety suit (what was once called a Hazmat Suit), quickly enters and removes the previously used table and chairs. A new table and fresh chairs are peeled from the their plastic wrappings and placed in the center of the room. The employee quickly exits behind what appears to be an airtight door, the light beside the retinal scanner goes green, the door unlocks, opens, and I enter. The entire room is off-white. In the center of the room is a beige table and two red chairs. Table For Two has revolutionized the dinning out experience. A couple reserves the restaurant, arrives at the agreed upon time, dines, leaves, and another couple arrives and does the same. The food is ordered via an app on your phone and delivered to the table via drone. The couple interacts with no one but each other. Table For Two is open, and booked, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. I hear a buzz and Celia enters just as I'm about to sit. I stand up straighter than I know possible. I feel a trickle of sweat run down my back. Here she is, in the flesh, and I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do now. None of us get much real world dating practice these days. I have a better idea of what do do when landing on the moon, than what to do when confronted with a living breathing woman. Hugging her is out of the question. Shaking her gloved hand with my gloved hand, making physical contact, seems forward. So I fold my right arm across my chest and bow down to one knee as if about to engage her in a martial arts death match. It feels stupid. I saw it done in a movie once. What am I doing? When I stand from my genuflection I can tell by her eyes, she's smiling. She does a curtsy, just like the woman in the movie! She walks over to her seat. Her hips rise and fall like the Dow Jones in her mustard colored pleated trousers. At the bottom of her pant legs is an elastic hem that seems to give her a good solid seal against her leopard printed, block heeled, Louboutin, red bottomed boots. The crimson of her mockneck blouse echoes the sole of the boot. Celia's jacket is made of a transparent biopolymer. When she moves you feel like you're looking at her shirt through a basin of rippling clear water. When she's still the jacket almost seems to disappear. Her Louis Vuitton mask and gloves are leopard printed to match the boots. She looks stylish and amazing by any metric, but it's her eyes that catch mine and won't release them. It's all the rage for women, and men, to adorn and makeup their eyes. I was thirty when COVID-19 arrived, and thirty four when COVID-23 ran roughshod through the world. I remember clearly everyone, everywhere, beginning to wear masks in public, and sometimes at home. It seemed ironic that here, in a nation that suffered from such severe Islamaphobia, everyone began to basically wear a niqab. Since the only thing that could really be seen on a person's face was their eyes, it became what people began to accentuate. And accentuate they did. Eye lids became the peacock feathers of the world. A brand of eyeliner for men, Guyliner, and colored microbe blocking contact lenses became very popular. There were even subtle, and not so subtle, eyeshadows that came into vogue for the gentleman that wanted to raise eyebrows. Not for nothing, I have on a clear coat myself this evening. Women, however, had full color pallets and elaborate techniques for lids, lashes and brows. Brow beating tutorials dominate ViewTube to this day. Fake rhinestones, real diamonds, Lidoplasty, whatever can be used to enhance the area just beneath the forehead and just above the nose, can and will be used. Celia however has gone with the less is more approach. Her lids have only the faintest wisp of orange playing across them. It gives the effect of a sunset. Her brows are neat but not beat, tended but not busy, and she wears no color in her contacts. Her eyes are clear, full and round. They are a brown that seems to almost exactly match her complexion. I can't take my eyes off of hers. She has the kind of eyes you can take home to mom. It's only after she sits that I notice that I am still standing. I take my seat across from her and smile a smile I hope she can see in my eyes. We pull out our phones and order. The conversation is a bit stilted at first, muffled through our masks, but the more we eat and drink the more we become the people we know each other to be on SkyMe. Perhaps we can love each other in real life and not just through screens, monitors, and fiberoptics. Perhaps. I look at the time and notice we're almost out of it. Our reservation is fast drawing to a close and the next couple will soon have their eyes to the scanner. I want to ... go somewhere with her and continue talking. This is better. In person is better in a way that I had not anticipated or remembered. I haven't done it in so long that I didn't realize how much I've missed it. It is this, the sitting across from one another, talking, looking into each others eyes, this is the human part, of human being. I've just been, being. I understand that now. But I have nowhere to take Celia. We'd have had to have made reservations to go to Single Serve Coffee Bar, or One Diner, but I hadn't thought that far ahead. I should have, but I hadn't. I feel very unpracticed at something that I'm sure should come natural. That I'm sure once did. As I'm having these thought my phone lights up with a new message, from Celia. The message is all emojis, a peach, a pair of eyes, an eggplant, and a gloved hand. Does this mean what I think it means? Is she inviting me, back to her place? I look across the table. Her eyes smile wide, and look away bashfully. I respond with 100, and a percentage emoji. I think there is one that combines the two, but whatever. I watch as she reads my message. I watch as she swallows hard, pushes her chair back and stands. It's not until she's standing that I notice that I'm still sitting. I stand so quickly I knock my chair over. She laughs as she puts her invisible coat on. I place my eye in front of the retinal scanner just beside the rear door. I feel my phone buzz, which is probably the receipt being sent to me. The door swings open, and Celia and I step into the night. We both order a single passenger, self navigating, Heli-Car to take us to her place. We stand a respectful and safe distance away from each other in silence until her ShareCopter arrives. She steps inside, gives me a wink, and is whisked away in an instant. A wink ... a wink. I smile broadly and look down at my phone. The app says my Heli-car is still six minutes away. I'm thinking about her wink, what it means. Was there just something in her eye? Was she just blinking slowly, with one eye? I replay it over and over in my mind. That's when I see them. Really I hear them first, laughing loudly, their voices bouncing off of the buildings like fireworks against the night sky. The sounds coming from them are unencumbered by the muzzle and muffle of a mask. They're, not wearing masks. The woman is tall, her legs look like they extend back to where God began. She's darkly complected, and her hair is in an afro that shakes as if answering in the affirmative with her every step. She's wearing a skirt, her legs bare, a tank top, her arms bare, and out of nowhere she begins to sing. I don't know the song but the man with her does. He's a bit shorter than she. His skin is the color of Decatur back road puddle water after a soft drizzle. He wears cut-off jeans, bare legs, and a t-shirt, bare arms. He joins her in song. Half way through the first verse they both begin to laugh again. Then they take each others hand, each others bare hand, and fall into each others arms, each others bare arms .... laughing. I'm somewhere between gobsmacked, confused, and disgusted. I've heard about them, but I've never actually seen one for myself. I almost didn't believe they existed. Handsies.

COVID-19 arrived in 2019, and by spring of 2020 it was a pandemic that sent the world into a frenzy. People were in grocery stores hitting other people over the head with wine bottles and stealing their cases of water. Even the multi-grain bread that no one ate went missing from the shelves. You couldn't buy a squirt of hand sanitizer or a square of toilet paper anywhere. There were people dying in China, Italy, Germany, and places we'd never heard of. There were, because of outbreaks, cruise ships stranded at sea playing Staying Alive by the Bee Gees to empty dance floors. Schools, one after the other, were suspending classes, sending student home, asking them to not return and mandating that professors that still had dial-up modems teach online courses. Proms were missed. Graduations were missed. Life as people knew it, was missed. A state of emergency was declared in most major cities and citizens were advised to stay indoors, and practice social distancing. Initially this didn't work in many cities. In Atlanta and D.C.the parks were packed like it was Memorial Day weekend. But time, reality and imposed curfews forced more and more people into their homes. Forced cocktail hours, online. Forced open mics to ViewTube. Forced dating to digi. The U.S. government seemed ill equipped to handle the arrival of this new strain of caronavirus. There was conflicting information coming from the White House, the CDC, WHO and HHS. Some commentators on MSNBC, Fox News and CNN said it was a dangerous and possibly fatal global pandemic, and other commentators, on those same networks, said it was just a bit worse than the flu, and not to overreact. People reacted, the over of it was a judgement call. Erring on the side of caution people stocked up for what felt like the coming apocalypse, or at the very least season two of The Walking Dead. They began to bathe in homemade hand sanitizer, some of which smelled like fish grease and aloe, and swim in bargain basement store brand bleach. People stopped touching, stopped gathering. Stopped. Those that left home at all would immediately wash their hands under scalding hot water when they returned. Even then, so as to break the habit of putting their fingers in their eyes, or mouth, or ears, they began to practice not touching themselves. Populations the world over weren't having physical contact with anyone, not even themselves. It led to rampant depression and a rash of suicides, globally. COVID-19 was the gateway that led to the world we find ourselves in today. At the same time, in 2020, in small enclaves in the West End of Atlanta, there were groups of people who would not comply. They would not wear the masks. They would not distance themselves from others. They would not, not shake hands with strangers, not hug loved ones, not feel their own faces. These West End neighborhoods that had recently gentrified immediately experienced white flight like never seen before. Even many people of color, feeling like they were surrounded by Typhoid Marys, left without even packing up their homes or locking their doors behind them. The few local grocery stores, in what was already basically a food desert, closed shop and so the people in the West End began growing and selling their own food. When the coffee shops and restaurants abandoned the neighborhood, and the property value fell sharply, they bought the buildings for little to nothing, and opened their own. When the clubs went under they started having bonfire illuminated block parties, all night, at the corner of Lee and Abernathy. The police were afraid to enforce the curfew, afraid to go to the West End, afraid of what they might catch. Even if was just the Afrobeat. The people of the West End gathered every Sunday and danced a commemorative second line up Joseph E Lowery Blvd, for all who'd passed the week before. No licensed physician would see them so they became herbalists and natural healers. They got sick. Some died. Most got well. They reported that cancer and other diseases had fallen to record lows since they'd begun growing their own food and using natural medicines. The suicide rate amongst them was almost non-existent. Their birth rate was much higher than the national average. They rooted in the earth. They danced in the sky. They waded in the water. They embraced each other whole heartedly, and greeted each other with a hug or handshake. Because of this they were called, Handsies. A Handsy medical representative was interviewed via SkyMe once on CNN. I remember watching the video on ViewTube. He warned that if people got too disease free, too clean, too far away from the natural pathogens of the earth, they would have no immunity against anything and be unable to survive even the common cold. This was four months before COVID-23. COVID-23 was the Rubicon. You either crossed into a life of masks, isolation, and celebrating being together for one week; or you went against everything that every major health organization advised, and breathed deeply the air of the West End. As you might imagine the overwhelming majority pulled on their gloves and settled into their downtown homes and what would become the new normal. I'd never even heard of anyone that had gone to the West End. I figured maybe that colony had moved on or died out. I imagined that none of the Handsies could have survived to see COVID-31. And here, dancing, singing, and laughing down the middle of Peachtree Street, two Handsies. They notice me trying to act like I'm not looking at them. They wave. I look at my phone. The Heli-Car is four minutes away. They don't approach me. They just smile and continue to walk and sing. His hand is in hers. At one point he spins her, dips her and they, kiss. His mouth is on hers, their tongues... She grabs the back of his head and pulls his mouth even further into hers. His hands hold her full weight. Touch her bare skin. They end their kiss, stare in each others eyes, laugh and continue their song and dance down the street. I look at my phone, two minutes. I feel, flush. Inspite of myself I steal glances at them. It takes a second for me to accept the truth of how watching them is affecting me. I feel, aroused. They look so free. So happy. I can't seem to imagine being so, comfortable, not only with another but with myself. Why? I was thirty when COVID-19 arrived. How had I, in just thirteen years, so completely forgotten myself. I look at them openly now. I can't take my eyes off of them as they ease on down the road like Dorothy and the Tinman. From The Wiz of course. Arm in arm, singing and dancing. My Heli-Car lands. I watch until they disappear around a corner. Then I take my seat and in an instant I'm whisked away. I arrive at Celia's building a few moments later.

I arrive at Celia's building a few moments later. She has a condo in what used to be the CNN center before they moved. I walk into the lobby, enter her unit number into a key screen by the elevator, and identify myself via retinal scan. She appears on the screen, her mask still on, smiles with her eyes, and buzzes me up. I enter the elevator and go through the building's decontamination protocols as I'm brought to her floor. Unconsciously I discover I'm humming the melody of the song the two Handsies were singing as they danced up the street. I make myself stop. I look into the retinal scanner beside Celia's door. It makes sure I match with the scan and approved apartment entry in the key pad below. I do. The door swings open and Celia stands there in a robe. She has on her mask, her gloves, and a bath robe, nothing else. We're separated by a transparent flexiwall. All of the modern condos have them. They're for added protection against COVID-31 and just in case someone tricks or falsifies their way into an apartment. Flexiwalls are super thin but incredibly strong moving walls. The owner of the condo can make it so that it's a fixed barrier, or allow it to move freely as the person on the other side walks about. Everyone's microbes are contained on their side of the wall and a disinfecting mist automatically sprays itself on anything of Celia's that I touch. I stand so close to the wall that even with my mask on I can see my breath against it. We're so close, and yet so far. She points behind me, and gestures for me to sit on the sofa on the far side of the room. I do. She turns and walks to a sofa across me, on her side of the flexiwall. We must be roughly fifteen yards from each other. She removes her mask, and smiles. In my mind I see the Handsy woman smiling and dancing down Peachtree street. I see her hand pulling her companions mouth more completely into hers. I start to hum a tune I don't know, as I remove my mask. "Dinner was amazing," Celia says. "Thank you," I reply, "I cooked it myself." She laughs. "Three weeks. Can you believe it?" "I can. I hear that anything you do for three weeks," and we say in unison, "becomes a habit." We both smile. "I ..." she pauses, turns her head away for a beat, and then continues, "I don't imagine you have a pair of absorbs, and a Virt-Life Suit with you?" I immediately take her meaning, "Unfortunately, I don't." I see Handsy man's hands against the dancing lady's bare skin as they kiss, and I feel my breath quicken. "Well I was wondering if you'd, if you'd like to celebrate our anniversary... properly." I see their fingers intertwined, hers black as pitch, his the brown of Decatur puddle water, "Absolutely," I reply. Celia gestures to a door just behind me. I stand and walk through it. I hear the disinfecting mist spray on the sofa. Through the door is a bathroom, and hanging on the back of the door is a robe that matches hers, and a unopened box of organisynthetic gloves. They are the Impossible Burger of gloves. Fancy. Expensive. I undress, slip on a pair of the gloves, throw my old ones in her bathroom trash incinerator, and don the robe. I re-enter the room and sit on the couch. We smile awkward, shy smiles at each other, but she can look at the contour of my robe and tell I'm aroused. She bites her lip and begins telling me the ways she'd kiss me. I match her line for line. I speak of my mouth on her neck, her breasts, her, everywhere. I tell her how I'd kiss her greedily, caress the back of her head and pull her mouth more fully into mine. We both elevate the intensity and salaciousness of our words as we try hander and harder to excite the other. Her left gloved hand rubs her breasts, beneath her robe and her right disappears into her lap. I reach beneath my robe and take a hold of myself. Her hips begin to grind into the sofa and she begins to softly moan. I rub my entire length, and begin to sweat. We're talking over each other at this point, both pushing the other to ecstacy. Then I see them again. In my mind. The Handsy couple. Laughing. His bare hand in hers. Dancing. Her bare skin against his. Kissing. No mask. No cares. No, gloves. I rip the gloves from my hands, and grab myself. I haven't touched myself without a glove on in almost a decade. I'm engorged and throbbing, in my own bare hand. It feels almost foreign. But it feels, good. I hear a scream from across the room. I look up, and see Celia putting her mask back on, her face contorted in horror. "What are you doing! What are you doing!?" I don't know what to say I open my mouth and only manage, "I...I...I..." "Are you, touching yourself!? I mean touching yourself touching yourself!? Are you speaking love making to me without a glove! Are you crazy!" She grabs the flexiwall controller and begins to make it shrink around me. "Grab your clothes and get the fuck out of my place! Get the fuck out!" The sanitizing mist begins to spray everywhere and everything, including me. I dive into the bathroom and dress as hurriedly as I can. I put on my mask and grab a fresh pair of organisynthetic gloves. I want to say something but I know there is no excuse for what I've done. In some cities speaking love making with an ungloved hand, and not notifying your partner, is a form of rape. When I exit the bathroom the flexiwall is contoured in such a way as to only allow me a path to the front door. Celia is fully dressed, in tears and sobbing into the phone to someone. "... and then... and then... he touch touched himself!" I hear the voice on the other end shout, what! I don't say a word I just leave. I board the elevator and run through the lobby into the street. My chest is heaving. I feel out of breath. What did I just do!? That was crazy! I feel... I don't know. Different. I can't explain it but it's true I walked into that condo one person and I've emerged, changed in some way. I close my eyes and see the Handsies easing on down the road. A warm night breeze runs across my closed eyelids, and my breathing slows. I look up a the bight moon in the clear sky, something I haven't done, in some time. I pull out my phone to order a Heli-Car. I need to go home, sleep, think, and sleep. I notice I have a message from hAPPy Dating. I've been kicked off the platform for inappropriate touching. Fuck. I look around and realize I live about seventeen blocks from Celia's condo. I take off one of my glove and feel the wind against my hand It's been a rough evening but it's still a nice night. I pull up walking directions to my place, start to hum a song I don't know and walk home.

I arrive at Celia's building a few moments later. She has a condo in what used to be the CNN center before they moved. I walk into the lobby, enter her unit number into a key screen by the elevator, and identify myself via retinal scan. She appears on the screen, her mask still on, smiles with her eyes, and buzzes me up. I enter the elevator and go through the building's decontamination protocols as I'm brought to her floor. Unconsciously I discover I'm humming the melody of the song the two Handsies were singing as they danced up the street. I make myself stop. I look into the retinal scanner beside Celia's door. It makes sure I match with the scan and approved apartment entry in the key pad below. I do. The door swings open and Celia stands there in a robe. She has on her mask, her gloves, and a bath robe, nothing else. We're separated by a transparent flexiwall. All of the modern condos have them. They're for added protection against COVID-31 and just in case someone tricks or falsifies their way into an apartment. Flexiwalls are super thin but incredibly strong moving walls. The owner of the condo can make it so that it's a fixed barrier, or allow it to move freely as the person on the other side walks about. Everyone's microbes are contained on their side of the wall and a disinfecting mist automatically sprays itself on anything of Celia's that I touch. I stand so close to the wall that even with my mask on I can see my breath against it. We're so close, and yet so far. She points behind me, and gestures for me to sit on the sofa on the far side of the room. I do. She turns and walks to a sofa across me, on her side of the flexiwall. We must be roughly fifteen yards from each other. She removes her mask, and smiles. In my mind I see the Handsy woman smiling and dancing down Peachtree street. I see her hand pulling her companions mouth more completely into hers. I start to hum a tune I don't know, as I remove my mask. "Dinner was amazing," Celia says. "Thank you," I reply, "I cooked it myself." She laughs. "Three weeks. Can you believe it?" "I can. I hear that anything you do for three weeks," and we say in unison, "becomes a habit." We both smile. "I ..." she pauses, turns her head away for a beat, and then continues, "I don't imagine you have a pair of absorbs, and a Virt-Life Suit with you?" I immediately take her meaning, "Unfortunately, I don't." I see Handsy man's hands against the dancing lady's bare skin as they kiss, and I feel my breath quicken. "Well I was wondering if you'd, if you'd like to celebrate our anniversary... properly." I see their fingers intertwined, hers black as pitch, his the brown of Decatur puddle water, "Absolutely," I reply. Celia gestures to a door just behind me. I stand and walk through it. I hear the disinfecting mist spray on the sofa. Through the door is a bathroom, and hanging on the back of the door is a robe that matches hers, and a unopened box of organisynthetic gloves. They are the Impossible Burger of gloves. Fancy. Expensive. I undress, slip on a pair of the gloves, throw my old ones in her bathroom trash incinerator, and don the robe. I re-enter the room and sit on the couch. We smile awkward, shy smiles at each. She bites her lip and begins telling me the ways she'd kiss me. I match her line for line. I tell her how I'd kiss her greedily, caress the back of her head and pull her mouth more fully into mine. We both elevate the intensity and salaciousness of our words as we try hander and harder to excite the other. Her right gloved hand disappears into her lap. Her hips begin to grind into the sofa and she begins to softly moan. We're talking over each other at this point, both pushing the other to ecstacy. Then I see them again. In my mind. The Handsy couple. Laughing. His bare hand in hers. Dancing. Her bare skin against his. Kissing. No mask. No cares. No, gloves. I rip the gloves from my hands. I haven't touched myself without a glove on in almost a decade. It feels almost foreign. But it feels, good. I hear a scream from across the room. I look up, and see Celia putting her mask back on, her face contorted in horror. "What are you doing! What are you doing!?" I don't know what to say I open my mouth and only manage, "I...I...I..." "Are you, touching yourself!? I mean touching yourself touching yourself!? Are you speaking love making to me without a glove! Are you crazy!" She grabs the flexiwall controller and begins to make it shrink around me. "Grab your clothes and get out of my place! Get out!" The sanitizing mist begins to spray everywhere and everything, including me. I dive into the bathroom and dress as hurriedly as I can. I put on my mask and grab a fresh pair of organisynthetic gloves. I want to say something but I know there is no excuse for what I've done. In some cities speaking love making with an ungloved hand, and not notifying your partner, is a form of rape. When I exit the bathroom the flexiwall is contoured in such a way as to only allow me a path to the front door. Celia is fully dressed, in tears and sobbing into the phone to someone. "... and then... and then... he touch touched himself!" I hear the voice on the other end shout, what! I don't say a word I just leave. I board the elevator and run through the lobby into the street. My chest is heaving. I feel out of breath. What did I just do!? That was crazy! I feel... I don't know. Different. I can't explain it but it's true I walked into that condo one person and I've emerged, changed in some way. I close my eyes and see the Handsies easing on down the road. A warm night breeze runs across my closed eyelids, and my breathing slows. I look up a the bight moon in the clear sky, something I haven't done, in some time. I pull out my phone to order a Heli-Car. I need to go home, sleep, think, and sleep. I notice I have a message from hAPPy Dating. I've been kicked off the platform for inappropriate touching. I look around and realize I live about seventeen blocks from Celia's condo. I take off one of my glove and feel the wind against my hand It's been a rough evening but it's still a nice night. I pull up walking directions to my place, start to hum a song I don't know and walk home.