To escape the pandemic, a writer attends the most brutal clown school in the world.

I thought about the elements of a thriller, as a genre: danger, death, uncertainty, violence, crime, corruption. Certainly all of these things are in the ether as we speak; and suspense, well, we are all undeniably suspended in some way right now.

I have stopped dressing to be seen; I dress for walking. I cropped my hair and allowed it to go salt and pepper. With the mask and the hair and the tennis shoes, I am unrecognizable, sometimes even to myself.

Was virtual better than nothing or were we merely deluding ourselves?

Biking through a post-virus-apocalypse Paris was surreal. The streets were eerily empty and the Chanel and Gucci ads that had plastered the kiosks and bus stops were replaced by health advisories and public thanks to medical professionals.

Futuristic sexual encounters aside, we’re constantly betraying our partners and friends with technology. In any interaction, a phone is liable to appear with or without explanation—shifting a dual-sided conversation into a regrettable love triangle.

The more the French view me as part of their country, the more I see myself as belonging here with them. With my blonde hair and daily scarves, I look the part. It’s easier to accept superficial validation such as compliments on my accent and cultural ease from the French than it is to reconcile my fading American patriotism.

Labor Day weekend at the Brown family beach house was a time-honored tradition, so it only made sense that George would make the long trip up from Washington.

Dorothy Spears (illustration by Kendra Allenby)