Homo empathicus. Filters of quarantine in a single office day

You approach the lace gates of a beautiful city.

Your white steed stamps the ground three times, and the gates open slowly. You ride gracefully into the realm of a fairy-tale egregore, home to a unique nation – the hardworking, creative people. This is evident in the pristine order around you: all the trees are neatly trimmed, standing tall in perfect rows along the avenues; delicate flowerbeds filled with violets are surrounded by low, multicolored fences. Benches gleam with a polished glow, sparkling in the reflections of horse hooves. The sky above this city smells of soft vanilla and honey, shimmering in turquoise and early blossoms.

Under this sky, you always feel at peace.

You pull into the parking lot, and your steed joyfully snorts at his friends who arrived a bit earlier with their riders. You dismount, remove the saddle, reward him with sugar, kiss his forehead, ruffle his snow-white bangs grown during quarantine, and head toward your work sanctuary.

As you approach, you see the walls greeting you with cascading green vines, gracefully framing the corners and windows. The golden-yellow doors swing open on their own. You step across the threshold, and instantly the fragrance of the most potent perfume fills your senses — composed of youthful love, entrance exams, the first earned hundred dollars, the scent of your son’s crown, the emotions of your favorite band's concert, the applause of the audience, and the rustling of the pages of your book. You take your temperature — because here, they care about you — record it in the ancient book, and the scanner identifies you through your unique heartbeat, which resonates with the rhythm of the universe, and you proceed to the office.

You glide through the glass doors and turn left. The first entrance is into a vertical portal, smoothly lifting you to the third floor. You step out of the elevator, and beneath your feet, colorful markings wink at your sneakers, reminding you that now, in this city, greetings, hugs, and even handshakes can only be done with your eyes.

You sigh.

You approach your desk, and, by some odd coincidence, there are more workers gathered here than the new rules allow. It just so happened...

You feel embarrassed, lost, like at the first — no, the second — date. You nervously adjust your hair, analyze what others are wearing, and suddenly notice that at the sight of you, they begin doing the same — shying away, blinking, as if a lash has brushed an eye — and wiping away tears of happiness from a single glance at each other. You sit down to work, but someone keeps approaching, telling you how happy they are to see you, asking about everything under the sun, and listening to you with mouths agape. Even the highest level of patience practice — stories about kids — everyone listens with such sensitivity, as if the thirteenth symphony of Bach were playing.

Endless tales of domestic confinements float in the air like giant soap bubbles, colliding and merging into large airborne installations, drifting out through open windows.

Greta can’t hold it in any longer and throws herself into Nina’s arms. In normal life, each of them would have avoided the other through the neighboring department to avoid unnecessary encounters.

Now, they stand, holding hands, apologizing, hugging again, and sharing stories about secret pilgrimages to brow architects and nail masters.

Natalie flits from desk to desk, greeting colleagues, and each time, instead of hugs, presses a stack of contracts even tighter to her chest. You watch, and it all seems to float, reading like a paradise garden with hummingbirds fluttering around, where instead of desks, there are huge flower buds blooming, and instead of a concrete floor, brooks gurgle.

Darius, unexpectedly bald, has become even more cheerful. In a group of colleagues, he enthusiastically shares how he entrusted his youngest daughter to cut his hair. Leonardo removes his baseball cap, and at that moment, a raucous laughter echoes through the corridors.

Your colleagues, just like you in your futile attempts to work, can’t tear themselves away from one another — because the office chair mechanisms have jammed. Magnets have sprouted within their structures. Now they will forever pull their owners closer. And the owners will blush, reluctantly pushing away, as if noticing the colorful markings on the floor.

End of the day.

You’ve only completed half the work. You stand, stretch in the mint-scented air, and glance out the sparkling window at the parking lot. The soft snorting of horses — white, blue, and bay — tells you it’s time to go home.

You look at your colleagues.

They can’t work either.

How could they?

The keyboard has turned soft, like play dough — its keys have softened from the warmth of human fingers.

The space bar now stretches into a blissful smile.

Well, you tell yourself. I’ll finish it at home.

But not this... everything.

May 18, 2020.