Q is for Quarantine. Saxon Boulevard

shiny facades decaying in slow motion. Birdsong dominates, where the sound of traffic was once king.

      Shelves inside the supermarket are starting to empty and some items have vanished completely: pasta, rice, flour. All gone. The absence of toilet paper has made news headlines around the world. Shoppers seem agitated and employees look tired, their faces pale and drawn. A palpable tension holds the supermarket in its grip. I can't gage if everybody is overreacting or if people are right to feel this concerned. We verbalise our confusion and fill baskets with fruit and vegetables and bread. We take advantage of the pumpkins and broccoli and leek and lentils, which are still available.

      It feels strange, but there's something comforting about being in this together, exciting even. We are bonding in ways that would not have happened otherwise.

      H is for Hand Sanitizer. The household is now running to a strict hygiene routine, as communicated via a group text message:

      1 Shoes are to be left on the front porch

      2 Backpacks, tote bags, umbrellas, hats and gloves are all to be hung on the new hooks by the front door (thank you for installing these, Kevin!)

      3 Clothes should be removed upon entry and placed immediately in the washing machine, or hung on the clothesline in direct sunlight

      4 Shower if necessary, or wash your hands up to the elbow at the very minimum

      The measures seemed somewhat militant, but the messaging has become louder as the death toll and infection rate grows larger.

      Ali's mum has kindly delivered a dozen eggs and some green apples with a huge bottle of hand sanitizer. It sits on the kitchen bench by the fruit bowl, bathed in light from the nearby window. It appears as a contemporary still life; a carefully considered arrangement loaded with symbolism for the strange days we were now living.

      Kevin removes the protective wrap from the bottle and pumps the nozzle into his palm where a huge dollop of gel oozes out.

      "Shit! I've overdone it with the sanitizer!"

      I poke fun at him for wasting something currently worth its weight in gold.

      "Here. Give me some."

      Holding out my open palm I wait for Kevin to drip the excess gel into my hand. Instead, he begins massaging the cold liquid across my palm. The smell of the alcohol burns my nostrils as he performs the task with perfunctory form. "You've got magic hands, Kevin."

      Like being lead by a dance partner, I passively accept the gesture, my stomach fluttering as his hands knead mine.

      "He should be a masseur!" Ali calls out from the living room, where she is folding laundry, "you were born with a gift, Kevin!"

      On cue, he begins working his way along my fingers, applying pressure in-between each groove. I can feel my shoulders relaxing and my eyes growing soft. Unsure of where the boundary between housemate-humour ends and flirtation begins, I call out to Ali in a spellbound drawl, "I'd pay of this!"

      I is for Isolate. We're now being told that self-isolation might soon be mandated. It's a difficult concept to grapple with, especially with no strict timeline or end date. People are already working from home or studying by distance, but many still feel reluctant to cut off contact with the outside world, especially if the measures are to last for months, not weeks.

      The prospect of isolating has a funny way of showing itself in each of us. Kevin immediately begins to channel his anxiety by orchestrating a series of hook-ups with ex-girlfriends. He has only done this on the odd occasion since I moved in, but it now occurs with a regimented frequency. I can sometimes hear the energetic coupling through my walls, the frenetic focus of two people unsure of when they might meet again. Hearing him climax is somehow discordant. It reveals a hidden aspect of his personality that has been out of reach for obvious reasons. He roars one night, like a soldier surrendering in battle, and I wonder if I can hear him sobbing afterward.

      As information starts to permeate the reality begins to slowly creep in. We start to comprehend the long-term effects of isolation in a shared house. No more visitors or trips to the movies; no more Thursday night drinks at the pub; no more live gigs or exhibition openings. No more coming and going as we please. What will this even look like?

      J is for Joy Division. A nearby gallery announces its last exhibition opening for the foreseeable future. The local art-scene congregate to the space and take advantage of the free wine and cheese. Small paintings hang on the walls and colourful sculptures balance on plinths. Flocks of people gather inside and all conversations are centred on The Virus. The art is just background noise. I keep my eye peeled for Travis, hoping he might be keen to spend the night together again. My cock is halfway to hard as I wander the gallery in the hope of hooking up, but I leave alone.

      When I arrive home from the exhibition the house is empty. The kitchen light is on and burnt rice clings to a pan in the sink. I listen to a Joy Division record, loud, and shave my balls in the shower.

      K is for Kleenex. To break up a rainy afternoon I put on my hooded parker and take a ride through the cemetery. Tombstones are streaked with coursing water, like weeping crucifixes. As I cycle along the winding bitumen I pay particular attention to the flowers by the headstones and the offerings left by loved ones. Close to the wrought iron exit, the name Dimitri Koundouris, etched in gold letters on a red granite headstone, shines beneath the glow of a street lamp. Laminated photographs of children are propped beside stainless steel vases, home to plastic flowers that spring like static fireworks.

      I rest my bike against the fence and make my way into the public bathroom, a grey brick cube with stick figure illustrations indicating male and female facilities. Stepping through the light-lock entrance I unzip my pants and pull my cock out before I reach the urinal. To my surprise I find a man already making use of the stainless steel trough. Positioned to the right, he stands with his legs forming a sturdy A-frame and turns to face me as I approach, my shrivelled dick already poised and ready to piss.