Well. That conversation was going to be rattling around in my brain for the rest of the day/week/month; but at least it was over with. I hoisted the groceries back up from where I'd let my arm sag to and prepared to finally go inside, set them down, and spend the next few minutes letting my shoulders recover. That was when Parker strolled over.

Parker was the last resident in our row, and one of the low-key annoyances in my life. He wasn't a bad person, in the grand scheme of things, but he possessed a combination of attributes that endlessly rubbed me the wrong way; or rather, a combination of attributes that I wouldn't have had a problem with if they weren't filtered through his personality.

It was fine, f'rexample, that he was a gym rat; good for him. But his habit of very definitely not-quite humble-bragging about it at the drop of a hat got under my skin to a degree that I found a little surprising. Similarly irritating to hear about were his professional success (as an up-and-coming junior manager in the sales department of some big firm down in Rancho,) his social life (he'd been to Cancún twice in the past year,) and his trendy consumer electronics (he'd waylaid me for a solid half-hour over the holidays to demonstrate his new "smart door.")

(That last was the most active irritant; partly because people who think that buying a lot of expensive gadgets makes them "tech-savvy" annoy me on a professional level, but mostly because his apartment full of Internet-of-Things things generated so much wireless crosstalk that I couldn't get reliable reception with my laptop from the far end of my couch.)

"Yo, bro!" he called out, in that too-chipper type-A fresh-young-sales-guy voice, coming considerably closer to me than 6' away. "Workin' hard, or hardly workin'?"

I tried not to glare. I felt the bag slipping in my grasp again; I could've sworn I only had some light groceries in there, but it felt like the bagger must've slipped a few bowling balls in as a prank (doubtless as a stress-reliever, after a long day working a service-industry job during a global pandemic.) "...Hey," I said, wondering how to end the conversation as quickly as possible, without looking like I was doing it.

"Man," he sighed, preparing to introduce the thesis he'd spend the next fifteen minutes expounding on if I let him, "this lockdown business is a drag. We're stuck doing virtual client meetings at least 'til they come up with a rapid test, all the good bars are turning people away at, like, a fraction of their capacity, and almost none of the gyms are are even open. I don't know what I'm gonna do with myself for the next couple months."

"Weren't you just telling me the other day how you had, like, six million streaming services?" I replied, edging away from him; he followed without even thinking about it. There's something about his type that just makes them close the distance; it'd always felt...I dunno, predatory to me, even with no hostile intent. Dogs don't respect your boundaries because they don't understand personal space; salespeople don't respect them because they understand, subconsciously, that it puts them at an advantage over you.

"Yeah, man, but...you know...!" he complained. "It's just not the same. You gotta get where the action is, you get me? TV's all fine and dandy for watching on the treadmill, but it's no substitute for getting out and living. It's gonna be all I can do not to go totally stir-crazy..."

He was close enough that I could smell his cologne, or body-spray, or whatever it was. I leaned backward, trying to maximize the distance between us without triggering his stalking instincts, and shifted the groceries in front of myself defensively. It wasn't like I had no sympathy for the guy - like Nicole, he was just too naturally social, and it probably wouldn't be any fun for him - but for crying out loud, did he have to get all up in my business over it!?

I wanted to sigh, but I also didn't want to breathe in any more of his air than I already was. "I mean, I wish I had better news for you," I said, "but...we're all stuck with it right now. Probably the only people who'll be getting out much for a while are the ones who've already changed - or the ones who don't care what happens to them. You could take your chances and risk ending up...well, you know...but you'd put other people at risk, too."

Parker's usual demeanor was the typical corporate-sales brand of aggressively unflappable confidence, but I saw uncertainty flicker briefly across his face. Then it was gone, as he forcibly reasserted the self he chose to present to the world. "Nah, man," he said. "I mean, maybe that's fine for some people, but I've got too much put into staying in shape to lose it all, you know?"

Stolen novel; please report.

He didn't actually gesture down at himself, but he might as well have. I declined to review the evidence, and merely nodded; then I stopped and thought about it. "Wait," I said, "why would that make you lose...?"

He considered it for a moment. "I dunno, man. Just, you know, most of them aren't exactly in top shape, judging from the photos."

I wasn't sure whether to be more confused over whether that was really his biggest concern, or what his standards even were here; come think, I didn't really know his taste in women. It was hard to square that with the pictures I'd seen on the news or the Internet - the virus didn't turn back time, and it wasn't just turning plain-Janes into supermodels willy-nilly, but it generally did what you'd consider pretty good work (if you wanted that,) and it certainly wasn't making anyone less good-looking.

Or was it a matter of his preferences? It seemed entirely plausible, with Parker, that it might just be more about the thought of going from lean and fit to soft and rounded, after what was probably years of blood,° sweat, and tears poured into pursuit of the former. But was it even true that someone who'd bothered to keep themselves in shape would have that taken away from them and end up as a generically soft, curvy marshmallow of a woman...?

° (Well, probably not blood.)

I had no idea. It simply hadn't come up in my own research, not being terribly relevant to me; and the official research efforts were much more focused on detecting and stopping the spread of the virus than on the why and wherefore of its symptoms. Undoubtedly there were people on the Internet trying to work out, after the fact, what the correlation was between what you found appealing in a woman, how you might hypothetically picture yourself as one, and how you ended up when the virus was done with you, but I didn't know anything about that...

"Well, most people aren't that fit to begin with," I offered, after a long moment of trying to untangle my thoughts on the subject. "So it doesn't prove much one way or the other."

He considered that for a moment, then shrugged. "Ehh, maybe. Either way, it'd be a drag having the power to open the pickle jar taken away, or reach the top shelf, or..." He trailed off, trying to think of any other crucial manly abilities that were in jeopardy, while I tried to remember the last time I'd had to open a pickle jar. And did those even have to do with how fit you were? No amount of exercise would make you taller...

"Still, though," he mused, unable to think of any more obvious ones,° "you gotta kinda envy them the freedom. We're gonna be stuck inside going crazy, while they can just get out and enjoy life, get in on the action..."

° (At least he hadn't brought up the ability to pee standing up...)

"Dunno that there'll be that much 'action' until things get more under control," I said. "I mean, they're still supposed to follow the containment guidelines in a mixed crowd, 'til we figure out if they can still transmit the virus after being changed. Probably will have an easier time of it, but not by that much - and that's not counting all the stuff they have to adjust to."

"Yeah, I guess," he sighed. "You're kinda lucky yourself - you never get out anyway, right? Guess it's no biggie for you, then." He gave me a thoughtful stare. "And you sorta already walk around on your 'paws,' come to think of it..."

"...What?" I stared in confusion, trying to figure out what he meant by that.

"You know, man, the foot thing. Look, you're doing it right now."

Okay, I was bouncing on my toes again, and maybe that did sort of look like the way cats walked, but it was just a nervous tic, really. I'd fallen into the habit ages ago; kid-me got bored of turning around like usual when I forgot what I'd come into a room for and had to retrace my steps in hopes of remembering. This way, I'd reasoned, I could just quick-pivot mid-step, instead of halting, shuffling around, and starting forward from a standstill. It'd felt kind of fun to me, too - lithe and springy. I felt silly about it now, of course, but the habit was still ingrained, and I couldn't be bothered to break it...

But it was patently absurd to think that, because I had some odd habits that sort-of resembled something completely different if you squinted just right, I'd have an easier time adjusting to a full-body metamorphosis that was tangent to both; so absurd, in fact, that I didn't want to dignify that with a response. "A-anyway," I huffed, "those are the options. You can take your chances, but the risk is on you. It's your choice."

Parker looked surprised for a moment, then laughed. "Nahhh, man! It'll be fine; we're still young and healthy, right? We roll up our sleeves, get through this, let it burn itself out, and then we can all get back to living how we want - eh, killer?"

He gave me a "playful" punch to the upper arm. It'd merely have annoyed me under normal circumstances, but after ages of standing around hefting a bag of (apparently) depleted uranium, I flinched so hard that I almost buckled, and had to scramble to avoid spilling my groceries right out of the bag. I ended up dropping it onto the pavement, but it landed right-side-up; thankfully, I didn't have anything breakable inside.

He reacted with the mild surprise of someone who considers slugging people in the shoulder to be normal human interaction and "helpfully" knelt down to pick up the bag, putting himself even further inside my personal space. As I rubbed my aching bicep, he stood back up and gave it a curious heft, surprised that it wasn't heavier. "Man," he chuckled obliviously, "you oughta join us at the gym sometime. Might do you some good, bro."

"I'll keep it in mind," I hissed, fixing him with a withering glare as I took my groceries from him and staggered into my apartment.