writingbrussels

Though George liked to describe himself as “A non-avid user of social media”, as the weeks had gone by, he found the isolating nature of the lockdown had induced him into consulting, much more often than usual, his rarely-viewed Facebook stream. He had always quite liked to see the light-hearted posts featuring pets, birthday greetings and food treats, of the few family members and colleagues he was “friends” with. Only lockdown could have brought an end to the posts of walks, holidays and crowded dinner tables he was also quite partial to.

But the depressing effect of the COVID lockdown had prompted in George a most uncharacteristic habit: he had taken, surreptitiously, to typing in names of colleagues he would not normally pay the slightest attention to. And the search on “Jernej Kovačić Brussels” had turned out to be most interesting.

At first he couldn’t tell if Jernej’s posts had been from the past – those Facebook “See your memories” features often confused George. But the photos on Jernej’s page certainly looked recent. Of a bar. Some sort of music show, or cabaret. A stage, burgundy-coloured curtains, lights. Not the best photos, as if he’d been taking them without wanting to be seen. Not many people in the bar either. A barman, or two. An old guy. A jolly woman, the landlady? A girl with a baby, of all things. Photos of two beer glasses and three bottles of Corona on a table, posted with comments, with some sort of in-joke: ‘It feels so good to get Coron-ed when you need it!’