Picture a decade when it’s been a decade since anyone had a coronavirus.
Everyone’s been healthy, but, in the absence of mass infection, mass boredom has filled in, and everyone is ready for some action, whatever acts enact it.
Specifically: everyone is ready for another round of Norwalk, because that infects everyone, which gives everyone a chance to talk about how far their diarrhea went, which was always several metres, which everyone wants to talk about, because it happened to everyone, including you.
You talk about it like this.
Norwalk spread from you to your beloved when the Norwalk took control of your muscles and pushed.
Most of the Norwalk filled your garment.
Some of the Norwalk poured up, against gravity, and wet the back of your collar.
A single dart of Norwalk from that burst pushed especially up and away from your nape, and parabolaed up, and over, and down, and right, onto the philtrum of your beloved, where they couldn’t keep their tongue off.
Now, in this imagined future, you blame your beloved, because how was that not their fault.