Aftermath

 Never go anywhere alone

There’s an old saying, something like when someone saves your life, it belongs to them (You’re not sure who or what says this, Indians or The Bible, a Chinese proverb tattooed on some emo poser’s arm) and that’s true more or less. She saves your life and it becomes this weight you carry, precious, valuable, a responsibility. You have to take responsibility for yourself now that she’s gone and made you someone worth saving.

There’s a scar on your stomach, as long as your middle finger, ropey and pink. Battle wound. She doesn’t talk about it unless you ask, it upsets her. You take pleasure in this, though you’re slightly ashamed of that. A better person wouldn’t. But it feels good to see tangible proof that she cares. You never know what she’s feeling most days, but when her voice breaks or she stops talking completely, that’s when you almost believe she’ll stay. That she won’t figure out what a tosser she’s saddled herself with, that it won’t always be like this and there are other men, better men that she hasn’t met yet. Ones more suited to a maybe-someday-chemist than a broke bike messenger who’d be living with his parents if they hadn’t topped themselves two month ago.

But that’s your future. It hasn’t happened yet.

You tell her this, just once, exhausted, tanked (you’ve been drinking too much) after Hannah’s gone to bed. She’s in one of her moods, not speaking, the slightest thing setting her off. You corner her in the kitchen, crowed her against the sink (she hates that—she hates it—"It just makes everything worse Jim") and you tell her she’ll be fine.

"They’ll find us and you’ll have the life you wanted. The one you were supposed to have without me."

It devolves after that, a slurred, jumbled rant about the meaning of life and her skin, the way she smells and old Indian sayings. She’s your life. You say, "I belong to you."

This is meant to be profound, but just makes you a bit pathetic.

She touches your scar. It’s healed over. You only feel her fingers, that skin. She catches you when you stumble, whispers. "You saved my life too."

Always travel in the daylight

You turn down the covers and kiss him goodnight.

You’re afraid to sleep.

You were a morning person once, but this is another thing that’s been altered by fate or circumstance. It’s another thing that changes you, though there are times you wonder if this woman, this survivor is actually an improvement on the one that came before her. That Selena didn’t check the locks three times before going to bed. She didn’t toss a leg across her lover and rock herself into him (Jim’s not complicated) just to fuck out her anger, her fear and reassure herself that she’s still here. This is real.

That Selena would have died the first day.

Maybe you did die. Picturing the remnants of your life as bloody carnage isn’t that much of a stretch.

You’re afraid to dream.

Jim clings to you constantly. His hand on your wrist, tugging, those arms around your shoulders, tight, warm, his fingers in your hair, playful and needy. Loving. You love him.

You’re not sure if it’s real or that you’d care if it wasn’t. This could all be a dream, the world ending. You and him at the end of time, this simplistic fantasy, this need for each other, this fucked up Adam and Eve in reverse.

He says, "Selena," and you check the locks. Once, then again before you turn out the light, tuck the shotgun beneath the bed and rock into him, fuck him out of anger and fear, because you’ve never had this before. It might not be real, but you love him, you love this and you’re not her anymore. You’re someone else.

Someone stronger.

No one ever comes back

You’re playing house with her, inside your cottage, with your yard and your puzzle games, your rationed rice and your orphaned teenager. It agrees with her. You tell her this when she’s smiling, happy. She’s beautiful this way.

You miss the little things, cold cereal, warm lager, satellite television, internet porn. Clicking and sliding the mouse to the next page, the next vid, trying your best to keep it down and not sluice your keyboard with spunk. That’s all gone now.

You resent the planes, more like birds flying south than anything that’ll actually land. Not just because they’re sporadic, but because one day they probably will.

She says, "Do you ever think about it? What’s going on out there?" No television, no cell reception, no random people wandering by.

You dig more rice off your plate, "No."

"Never?"

It’s a lumpy, pasty mass that sticks in your throat until you force it down, "There wasn’t much to it, was there? At least not for me."

It makes her silent, sad. She pities you and your insignificant existence, your tiny little pre-apocalyptic life, already small, but getting smaller when seen through her eyes or the unfortunate luxury of your hindsight. This life is accidental, a cosmic mistake. It wasn’t supposed to happen.

It’s more than you’ve ever had.

Staying alive’s as good as it gets.

You pretend it’s spontaneous, unplanned.

That one look at those baby blues has you hot and bothered, ready for a shag, but it’s just the opposite. You’ve been pining all day, for his teeth and skin, his mouth, that tongue, pink and wet, slinking around your nipple while you straddle him, grind your body and his into the bed just before his fingers curve inside you, stiff jackknifing pistons, faster, harder, you scream (Jim) right before he thrusts inside you, hips jutting from the mattress because you’re on top, you’re on top, but he’s the one in control.

He fucks like the world has ended. You fuck like your heart is breaking.

You say, "I belong to you," because he said it first. And because you think it might be true.

Jim, With endless love we left you sleeping. Now we’re sleeping with you. Don’t wake up.

You say, "I know what you’re thinking" because it’s your joke, your secret language with her.

She smiles, plays along, "Okay, what am I thinking?"

"You’re thinking—about a gigantic, greasy basket of chips."

"That’s what you were thinking." Her head is on your chest. You can feel her breathing. She can feel your heartbeat.

She says, "I was thinking that I love you."

"You stole my thought."

"Sorry." Another plane flies overhead, lower this time.

"It’s okay. You keep it."

You look up.

Apocalypse Please