All couples I know have at least one household chore that causes domestic strife: for us, it’s maintaining the backyard. Brendan and I have gone back and forth over the best way to take care of it. The weeds are overgrown, something that would take hours and hours of physical labor for us to eradicate completely. Before quarantine started, Brendan just wanted to pay a professional to come clean everything up. I wanted to save the money and take it upon ourselves to do what we could.

It wasn’t until I met my husband that I realized the importance of (nonsexual) touch. I can count the number of times I remember hugging my siblings on one hand, and hugs from my dad were, and still are, pretty rare. We say “I love you” freely and I have a great family, but we don’t casually cuddle or sit close together on the couch to watch a movie. Casual touch and (nonsexual) physical intimacy were a foreign concept for me; something I had to “navigate” as I got older.

It is 7:43 and I am barely awake. Three alarms later, I’ve relocated from the bed to the couch, nesting into what has become “my spot.” It’s dark in the living room; silent; still. As my computer boots up, I swallow half a Lexapro. Last week, I called my doctor to ask to go back on medication. It works better with therapy, she reminds me. I know, I respond, I just need something to shine the glass on this belljar. She obliges, and prescribes me three months worth. A simulacrum of a baseline in a bottle.