Decameron: My Sworn Frenemy [I/6]
I was at the store, trying to choose between a savory Cabernet and a punchier Merlot, when I heard a noise that sounded half like a squeak, half like a cluck. Turning towards it, my gaze fell on none other than Kristelana Dawes: my sworn frenemy, and the person who rented the apartment across the hall. She was staring directly at me from about twenty feet away. Our eyes met and she started, scurrying away. I sighed.
That night, I logged on to look for the subtweet I knew would be there.
“Saw acquaintance today just buying wine,” it read. The timestamp was maybe six minutes after she’d seen me. I wondered if she’d typed it without even leaving the store. “Shameful.” it continued. “You should only be shopping for absolute essentials, as infrequently as possible.”
I flushed despite myself, embarrassed and upset. First of all, I had also bought Eggo waffles, which would get me through at least a day, food-wise. Second, I knew on some vanishing, gossamer-thin level that she was right. Craving pain, I clicked on the replies. Four people agreeing with her sound judgment and good moral taste.
Kristelana and her followers had a lot of opinions on karma and morality.
Her Twitter bio read: “The things you put out in the world will come back to you one hundred times over.”
I hated ever thinking she was right about anything.
The next day, we both happened to leave our apartments at the same time. I was going out for a slouch around the neighborhood in my hoodie and pajama pants. She was in full running attire. Sleek in athleisure, her legs looked like whale jaw bones.
This time my sigh was internal. I should say something, I knew. Defend myself, or (ugh) acknowledge that I was going to try to do better. I was going to go on fewer shopping trips a week. Maybe I’d even eat healthier, too, to keep my immune system up. That had to be good for something.
“Krystelana, I--”
I paused, looking behind her and into the shadowy entrance of her apartment. I blinked. There was toilet paper stacked in the front hallway. Mountains and mountains of toilet paper. She could have built a fort from all the packages of toilet paper. She could have housed a family in that fort.
“I see you’re expecting the things you put in the world to come back to you,” I said. Then I pushed into the stairwell and bounced down the steps, taking them four at a time.
Decameron is a newsletter recounting the 14th Century set of quarantine tales for 2020. Read the original story.