Patient Zero

At work Friday, I was chatting with my co-worker, M___ . M___ said she had gotten over whatever sickness she’d had on Wednesday, but that her husband was at home with the flu that very minute.

I stood up and walked away. Then I went and got some Lysol wipes, wiped my hands, lurked a few cubes over until Typhoid M___ moved on, and then wiped down everything she had touched, because I am getting on a plane and a boat and I will not be sick.

I have been washing my hands every other hour. If anyone in my department coughs or sneezes I give myself a pump of hand sanitizer, even if they’re three rows away. And then this woman comes in directly from her husband’s sickbed? No. No thank you. I make the sign of the cross at you, madam. Begone.

Later on I went to a reception in the building, and immediately scanned the crowd to see where M___ was. My friend D___ saw me looking and laughed, because she (D___) was one of the people who gave me refuge in her cube while M___ was blowing the flu about in her wake.

“Where is M___?” I asked my friend. “I can’t see her.”

“Oh, she’s serving the cake,” D___ answered.

I gasped in horror.

Of course, D___ was riding me. Patient Zero M___ was not serving any cake. She was just cozied up next to the department head who will no doubt be shivering and aching by Monday.

Just typing about the experience made me get up and wash my hands.