On the seventh day of his birthday, Paul kept going in a direction he couldn’t fathom.
The virus followed him, keen to sneak through his protective efforts.
He couldn’t shake her off his trail.
Even while he was eating meringue, vanilla ice cream, and black berry compote, on Princes Street, outside Nash 19, she was still pursuing his cells.
Paul wore a black mask. He was beginning to find some masked women attractive – as if his imagination had life left in it.
The elastic was stretched. The Americano so slow to appear he decided to leave without it. He went to buy an AeroPress.
Meanwhile, a pleasant man was replacing the screen on Paul’s iPhone 7.
‘How do I know the virus isn’t in my cell phone?’
Paul was used to talking to himself.