Missing Hours

@marylalala Day 5. Stared at the ceiling. Stared at my husband. Stared at the ceiling again. I’m getting a divorce. @andyw My apartment smells like yeast. Pretty sure I love this sentient flour blob more than most people now #stayhome #staysafe @roarofatiger Okay the plants are watered, the floors are mopped, I’ve reorganized the spice rack by color. LET ME OUT OR I WILL RIOT

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It’s official — they can’t go outside anymore, and it’s bizarre. Sveta sets up her laptop in the kitchen, and every evening they Skype Yuna. Then Ilya meets David, Yuna’s husband. “I’m going to have some puzzles delivered to you, son,” the man says, and Ilya doesn’t know how to respond. After receiving the packages, Ilya stops pestering Sveta with whining and restless wandering from wall to wall. Instead, he anchors himself to the kitchen table, absorbed. He does need the mental exercise — David is very thoughtful. Sveta goes out and returns with several bags of homemade food from the Hollanders, and Ilya stuffs himself full. He makes a couple of trips to the hospital for an IV, and his headaches begin to ease. With the pain receding, he’s left with a restless mix of boredom and pent-up energy. After Svetlana bluntly tells him to fuck off, he doesn’t ask again. That leaves him with one reliable outlet: a jerk-it marathon. No porn, though — the browser on his phone is still disabled. He misses it; he does like to watch. Then Sveta gets a call from home. “My dad has caught it,” she mumbles. “The new virus.” Shit. “You should go home.” “I don’t want to leave you.” “Look, I’m better, and you need to go. Your parents need you. I’m fine.” Well, he’s as fine as he can be. Shane — Yuna’s son — takes her to the airport, and Ilya doesn’t have much time to panic, to wonder what he’s supposed to do next, when a man — it’s Shane, it’s his place — lets himself into the apartment. Sveta did promise Ilya wouldn’t be alone. Shane’s in a dark hoodie and a surgical mask, and there is something that Ilya should remember, but the memory won’t surface, it’s an itch he can’t scratch. “Hi,” says Shane. “I’m staying with you.” “Huh, I thought Yuna would beat you to it.” The man pauses — Jesus, the guy’s so slow — then shakes his head. “Okay. Sorry about this,” Ilya waves a hand at the signs and arrows all over the walls and doors. “It’s fine.” The man doesn’t look good — his slumped posture and unsteady voice betray him even to Ilya’s faulty senses. Shane heads for the bathroom, and Ilya follows him like a shadow. “You okay?” “Yeah! I mean… yeah. Yeah.” “One more ‘yeah’, and I’ll definitely believe you.” “Oh, fuck off,” says Shane, and the delivery is jarringly, deeply familiar. “Are you going to take off the mask?” Shane shakes his head and scrubs his hands at the sink. Okay. Weird. “Are you sick?” “No? Drop it.” “No? Then why don’t you take off the mask?” “Fuck off,” says the man and goes to some unmarked door. How to be absolutely suspicious and not to breed trust — a manual by Shane, Yuna’s son. Ilya steps right after him, “Give me Yuna’s number. Sveta and I Skyped her every evening, but I don’t have my own computer.” “You do,” Shane mumbles through the mask. “I do? Here?” “No, at home.” “I want to call her. Now.” “She’s… Eh…” “Something happened,” Ilya deduces. He’s not stupid. “You’re in mask, you don’t want me to call her — is she sick? Did she catch it?” His command of English grammar is in full retreat, but now there are few things he cares less about than this. “I don’t know, okay? She has a fever — Dad’s with her right now, and I don’t know if I’m sick or not.” And there’s no one else who Ilya knows. Sveta has left, only Yuna, Shane and maybe David are still there, but they have their hands full. Ilya can’t make it alone. No. He must be brave. “Don’t be stupid. We will live in one apartment — if you sick, you can at least infect me comfortably, and not like this.” “I’m not going to infect you,” Shane snaps. “Fuck!” He paces, plants his hands on a chair, and sags forward, breath labored. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” he murmurs, then sinks to the floor. “We’ll be fine.” “Wow, Shane! Come on, let’s get you on the bed.” Ilya lifts him off the beige carpet and heaves him onto the matress. Shane slumps against him, dead weight, his head slowly coming to rest in Ilya’s lap. That’s when his own body decides to wake up — a jolt of sensation straight to the groin. Shane’s face is much too close to his crotch, and now it definitely not the time. No-no-no, not now. Ilya needs to get laid, but there’s the new virus, the lockdown, the getting lost, the not recognizing faces — yeah. No. It’s going to be just him and his hand for the foreseeable future. Shane’s breathing deepens. Feeling awkward, Ilya pets his hair in what he hopes is a calming, paternal gesture. It’s surprisingly soft — cool and heavy, like black silk. His own father would have killed him for hair like this. He’d prefer a buzzcut. He’d say Ilya looks like a real man now. “You okay?” Ilya asks. “Yeah, sorry. Yeah,” Shane mumbles and pushes himself stiffly off Ilya’s lap — is he embarrassed? Are they not close? No straight man has ever put his head in Ilya’s lap, and he briefly wonders if it’s a Canadian thing — just bros being supportive. Are they friends? Shane certainly seems physically comfortable around him. What if he’s fucked Shane? He probably hasn’t. Logically, a fuckbuddy wouldn’t have let his mother stay at his side. Shane sits up. Ilya stands — he should get water, tea, do something — and he sees Shane cover his face with his hands. A wedding band glints, but Ilya struggles to tell which hand it’s on. Does it matter? A ring is a ring. “Is nobody waiting for you at home?” Ilya asks. “I have money, yes? Can’t I just hire a help?” Shane looks up — his eyes are wet. “Mum’s sick, but we’re hoping it’s not COVID. Dad’s with her and with… Look, we don’t need to hire anyone right now.” And with who? “I don’t think your wife would appreciate that.” Shane is silent for a long moment. “I don’t have a wife.” “You’re wearing a ring.” Shane glances at the band, then back at Ilya. “There’s no wife.” He leaves it at that, and Ilya feels he’s missing something obvious. A marriage, but no wife. And Shane was just in his lap. Wait, is gay marriage legal in Canada? “A husband, then?” Shane sighs, “I really don’t want to talk about it.” “Marriage problems?” “Ilya, it’s not the time.” Fine. He can drop it for now, but if Shane’s going to hide Ilya’s life from him, he’ll need to share something about his own. Ilya can be unbelievably annoying — so annoying that Sveta promised to strangle him if he didn’t shut his gob. “Okay,” he says, backing toward the open door. He busies himself with cooking and puzzles while time drips by. Eventually, Shane joins him, still in the mask. “You’re taking all this pretty well,” the man says. “What? The fact I can’t remember more than ten years of my life? That the people who are supposed to be close to me are strangers? That I’m dependent on you all because my sense of direction is a horrible and I can’t recognize faces? Or that I don’t know if I’ll ever play hockey again?” Ilya’s voice sharpens. “Maybe you mean how well I’m taking the fact that you’re all too scared to tell me anything? Which part of this, Shane, am I taking so well?” Shane just watches him, silent. Who the fuck knows what he’s thinking. Ilya doesn’t want to burden him with whining. “There’s nothing I can change. I have money, right? If it all goes to shit, I’ll still have money. Money is the most important thing.” He doesn’t miss hockey — not exactly, but he misses moving, going somewhere, getting out of his head and into somebody else’s bed. And yet, he’s never felt more loved — by Sveta, Yuna, even by Yuna’s son and her husband. Everything they say — or don’t say, in everything they do — there’s so much love that Ilya wills himself to be grateful and not to do anything that might worry them. He’s trapped in this apartment and in their love. No. It’s not bad. Ilya is grateful. He probably loves them, too. Things could be worse. He’ll get better. Everything will be fine. He’s brave. He needs to be brave.

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OTTAWA URGES RESIDENTS STAY HOME AS COVID CASES SPIKE