The police tell me three different dates on which I might leave quarantine, though none are relayed with any confidence.
In the end, my departure happens earlier than any of the mooted days.
Hotel reception call:
Hello miss, what time are you checking out on Sunday?
Oh. I didn’t know I was leaving on Sunday.
But that’s earlier than... that’s not fourteen days, is it?
It’s thirteen nights. In hotels, that’s fourteen days.
I book a flight.
Before I get the train to the airport I walk down the quay to the opera house. I drag my suitcase. I breathe the air. I feel the sun on my face. I sit on a bench and stare at the sails in the burning blue.
At the airport at 11am the women next to me are drinking large white wines and I think seriously about joining them.
The flight is turbulent. Queasy-making.
Then I’m home.
The flat looks the same as I remember it. And different. A bottle of sparkling waits in the fridge. The plants welcome my return.
The memory foam mattress has forgotten me. But the sofa remembers.