That’s his classical escape route.
But he’ll be back to the Wake tonight.
Later, when the sun is down, they all assemble on the roof of the rent-controlled castle. Most wear black, except for Siren. She says white sings to her heart.
Hamlet is presiding. If not for his red scarf, he could have been mistaken for a gravedigger. He holds a skull in his hands. The skull is dusty. Poor Yorick.
“Tonight, we honor our dear departed friend, the Handshake,” Hamlet says.
“And we should mourn the death of the hand kissing, too,” Anna interrupts. A few women murmur their approval.
Hamlet nods, but goes on. “Like many classical figures before it, the Handshake fell victim to the Plague. When it was alive, and people’s fingers met, so did our hearts and souls. Where the six feet of the social distance came from? I’ll tell you. It’s the depth of the grave. Now, when we social distance, we are separated by more than that. Without you, our dear departed, it’s worse than the silence of the grave. In the grave, we could shake hands with Eternity. Now, we are alone. The most we are allowed to do is the fist bump.”
He lowers his head. A tear snakes down his princely cheek. Everyone lowers their heads but not before bumping their fists. Most wear rubber gloves. Most have tears in their eyes.
The Wake is over. A sigh is heard, as if someone closes the last classical book in the world.
Mark Budman is a first-generation immigrant, currently living in Boston, USA. His writing has appeared in McSWeeney’S, Catapult, Witness, Five Points, Guernica/PEN, American Scholar, Huffington Post, Mississippi Review, Virginia Quarterly, and elsewhere. His novel “My Life at First Try” was published by Counterpoint Press. www.markbudman.com