New fiction: A woman grapples with motherhood during the Covid-19 pandemic

We are bunkered down in the house, no contact with the world outside. My husband watches television all day. The news laps against my ears like waves at high tide. I constantly find myself in the kitchen – cooking, cleaning, doing the dishes, washing vegetables, chopping, cooking, cleaning. Rinse and repeat. The skin on my hands is eroding; bits get washed away under the tap and fall into the drain, reaching god knows where. Between chores, I remember to pop my pills. I try to be regular and sometimes even set alarms on my phone. But when the alarms go off, I forget why I set them. My husband has taught me to write the purpose against the alarm, but it’s too much of a bother. In fact, to tell you the truth – and please don’t share this with anyone, for they will find it ludicrous – I am mortally scared of phones. When mine begins to ring, I startle each time, jumpy at the thought of stuttering and stammering into it and getting all jumbled up. I would much rather see people in person than speak with them on the phone. But lately, people have shrunk to voices;...

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