This article is published in number 10 of Vanity Fair on newsstands until March 9, 2021
2020 taught us two things: the first is that we had no idea how to wash our hands, the second is that the home is more important than anything else in the world. Suddenly the housing unit has become the form and substance of our lives, the only container of joys, pains, “we’ll make it”, bread-making and hopes. I understand perfectly, my dear friend, that when love arrives it is difficult to resist, I understand that once you start seeing someone with different eyes then you never go back, but think with me: if he doesn’t reciprocate, what do you do? Do you self-declare a micro Red Zone and you are barred from shame until the National Health Service gives you a lobotomy for you and a friend together with the vaccine? Protect what is sacred, the tranquility within the home, the only great value in Covid time. And if you really feel strong with a great pure and courageous feeling, then first you move and then you declare yourself. It’s bad for you to cry over busted boxes.
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