Maybe the pavement was where I’d get peace, rest. I believed that my world was an illusion, that the real world lay nine stories below, and I had to drop to the pavement in order to have my blinders uncovered. I saw someone without a face floating outside my window. When I didn’t feel like I was drowning, I began to hallucinate. My fits produced dry-coughing so hard that it turned into dry-heaving. There was a shortage.ĭays passed without me. “How old are you?” asked the person on the other end. When I first started having chest pains and shortness of breath, I called 911. Then, the week after Dean died, I caught the virus myself. There was no final embrace, no last laugh, no goodbye. A handsome man in his 60s, with close-cropped hair and a frame more chiseled than that of many 20-somethings, he brought character to every event lucky enough to have him. I wanted nothing more than to disappear.ĭean had been a friend in my writing group, a hilarious, caring writer, singer, and actor who was unafraid to speak his mind. In that moment, I wanted to climb into a hole and pull the hole inside with me. “Dean passed away from Covid, Alex,” a friend told me over the phone last March.
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