Mango Sticky Rice, or How I Feel About the Pandemic

You don’t care about this story, but I am writing it anyway. It is unedited, unplanned, whispered itself into words.

We bought mango sticky rice in the street, from a cart, not even a dollar each. We sat outside a McDonald’s and ate it, plastic forks sliding against the wobbling plastic container, sweet coconut covered rice made crunchy, mango slices sliding along our tongues, the night air cooling, the traffic finally lessened, the darkness shimmering with neon, language a bridge between us.

It was January. A new year. Against the blind feeling in my gut, I wanted to feel hope. In the faded embers of last year, was I a phoenix rising? Was I not invisible? Could I conjure my future?

There’s a new virus.

My parents send me articles. It’s in China. In a city named Wuhan that I’ve never heard of but where millions of people live. Millions of people are now trapped inside their homes. It’s a flu, but worse. I don’t need to tell you. You’ve heard about it by now.

I am used to worry from a distance. I move into places bodies like mine weren’t expected to be — female, white, alone. I am careful. I am watchful. I take only calculated risks.

The math begins to add up.