I drive and Teresa navigates (while talking on her cellphone) into Punta to leave the Tetra Sa at the NAHAT carwash, then walk around town, masked, holding hands, enjoying the view of the sea. We sit at a table outside one of our favorite cafés, Le Délicieux. I order an espresso, Teresa a tea. We stroll, window shopping by some of the still not-closed-for-COVID clothing stores.
We watch a movie inside our apartment, and pick up with our fingers to drop on our tongues slices of salami and cheese.
Teresa puts on her mask and takes the 4 x 4 to The Hippies Market to shop for fresh chicken, eggs, and vegetables. I sit on our balcony in my thick towel robe and sip yerba mate.

Our balcony is spiritually lucrative,
The sea and sky untangle our thoughts,
The incandescent air opens our lungs,
Obliterating preemptive attacks by nightmares.

We deadname this year’s fear of COVID
And unsubstantiate Tyrant Reginald’s face.
The death toll will never uncount,
As we debunk false claims of rigging ropes.

I read a feminist translation of “Beowulf.” I like it. The hero reminds me of Teresa, swinging her sword at the dragon of life and the God of the Witch.
I breakfast at noon on media lunas. I sit at my desk and sip yerba mate. I open my laptop and begin typing.
Teresa is out running errands, driven by our remis driver, Eliomar.
I rescind all my past lies.
Teresa is in bed with a headache and high blood pressure. I hurt when she hurts. I lie beside her and read “From Sand and Time.”
Quit floating about you antediluvian! Ahh, Sunday. Pizza!