The list

It was Sunday, like today. I had just hugged my friend goodbye, taken a book from her, walked past the magnolia tree of my road. All the flowers upright, breaking the downward tendency of the branches, like the hands of an Indian folk dancer. The intense azure of the stained-glass-window shop in the background gave the street a prayer-card look. Laughter came from the pub on the corner, children were chalking the pavement. A couple stroked the neighbour's cat. My keys, my deep-blue door, the carpeted stairs. My cat stretching his legs through the banister, wanting to reach me. Me lying on the floor. The book my friend had given me with one word on its cover: Abiding. The wall clock knocked gently, almost a whisper, nothing. The stars falling slow on the rooftops. Me looking from the floor through the window. Abiding. I was going to search for the word in the dictionary when a message from far, far away popped up.

The sender was a friend, a bright guy. I believe his field of research not long ago was fluid mechanics. However, our correspondence had never been about fluids or solids, but more about the intangible. This time, though, his message was filled with numbers, percentages, liquids, objects, hours. It had the form of a list, too, an unlikely one. A list of instructions. Soap on the hand for 20-30 seconds... liquid hand soap and water is still preferable to alcohol... Drying the hands after washing... use as many hair pins as possible... If your distance is less than 1.5 meters... It's better to set the washing machine temperature to 60 degrees Celsius instead of 40 or 20... Ethanol (ethyl-alcohol) and Isopropyl-alcohol are two of the best alcohols... if their concentration is lower than 55% or more than 90%, they simply can't... Bread should be reheated before consumption... put them in an isolated location for a few days (at least 3 days, although this number is reported to be higher/lower). He said the list was based on articles he had been studying. I wrote back. On his reply the list continued. This time the instructions were shorter, more precise: Never ever shake hands or hug at the moment. Never ever eat or drink in cafes and restaurants. No fast food. If you go to a supermarket, buy necessary items for at least a week or two. Don't participate in voluntary activities. You can still go to different places in the city as long as you keep enough distance from others. Avoid touching the face until you're back home, undressed, washed you hands and cleaned your stuff. At the end, what I thought to be his last recommendation: Don't trust the government. That evening I would not have believed that I was to live by them all. 
 
After receiving that list, not much has been the same. My blue door, the magnolia tree, the wall clock, all that everyday stuff only lives in the snow globe of my memory now... so perfect, so small, so remote. Today is Sunday as well, and again I have got a message from my friend. All friends write from distant lands these days. This is the only one who sent the list, though. We've never seen each other, but now I'm determined to travel to his country one day, sit at his table and try his food perhaps while discussing the intangible, like before. We shouldn't let go of any opportunity, he said. He also said that there was something else on the list, a bullet point of information he had intentionally removed. I guess eight months ago he might have thought it wasn't really an instruction anyway: We can and will win only when we're ready to attack. We're many months, if not years, away from it, and until then, the game isn't controlled by us. Win. Attack. Control. Our correspondence had never had such verbs. The floor of the place where I live now is cold; I can't lie on it. On the shelf, something from that Sunday evening is still in place. A book with just one word for a title: Abiding. I don't need the dictionary.