I don’t get Super King Size.
I’ve dragged my feet along this planet’s lines for thirty years, and still haven’t figured out the most basic of life’s realities. And no, I don’t wonder whether we’re alone in the Universe, I don’t lose any sleep over how trees go on living even after they’ve lost all their leaves, or whether it’s better or worse to have a higher power to believe in.
But I do wonder about Super King Size beds, and who decided it was a good idea to wake up every morning miles away from the breathing life form you went to bed with hours earlier.
And then I think, what if locative constraints didn’t force us so close to each other? What if we had houses the size of soccer fields and and 20 feet wide desks? What if you never had to share a taxi, or bicker over the armrest on a plane? What if you never had to queue?
We’d probably stop touching and letting ourselves be touched altogether.
Except on health check-ups, and then there’d be rubber gloves involved. And still we’d dread it, the touch of a stranger’s gloved finger. We’d mentally prepare for it hours in advance, sipping coffees by tennis court size kitchen islands, just out of our Super King Size beds shared with no one. We’d shudder at the possibility of skin pressed against skin, rubber gloves or not, but we’d decide we can take it. One touch a year to make sure we still exist within normal parameters. A single hygienic, resolute touch, and back to Super King Size peace and quiet.