Somewhere, high above the glittering city, she checked her phone, hoping for a message that said he loved her.
All day, she’d hoped for a bunch of flowers, or maybe a jewelry delivery—nothing she needed, but things she wanted, like any woman might.
As a girl, she had dreamed of a man taking care of her. She had imagined how handsome he would be, how rich, how powerful. Now, she lived in the palace of disillusionment, unsure if he knew what the calendar said, or, even, who she really was.
She settled into meditation, into the small room deep in her head none of them could touch. There, the noise of rage quieted, the work retreated, and her friends and family, with their deep love and constant need, fell away. But it took her longer than usual to get there.
The time to enter had stretched longer day by day. Even when she could find the door, some days it was as if it took her long minutes to find the key. She feared the day might be approaching when she could no longer unlock that room and escape.
She scrambled eggs in a kitchen lit only by the hissing blue burner flame. It was nearly time to wake the children, to hustle them into outfits and fill their bellies before rushing them out to the car.
She ate as the food was ready. By nightfall, they would be hundreds of miles away, and she needed strength for the journey.
Her husband slept, unaware of the packed suitcases in the trunk of her car. If she hurried, they’d be gone before he awoke, before he could say yet another thing about what he had the right to grab.
Maybe we can rest this weekend? she suggested. Maybe we can find time to be ourselves?
We are ourselves, he said. Who else would we be?
She remembered, then, a time when they planned frivolous days, stopping at bars and restaurants, shopping in stores where there was not a single thing they needed. Those people they had been, meandering the city hand in hand, felt like aliens.
Now, they made signs. So many signs. Constant sign-making, and slogan-drafting. Her palm was calloused from holding broomstick handles topped with these blaring missives, and, she wondered, was anyone reading?
She took a moment to breathe deeply and straighten her dress before the cameras turned on. She had rehearsed and memorized her talking points. She understood every ramification. What she said would make all the difference with the people who were listening most closely. She didn’t like the deal, but she had made it for reasons to be revealed later.
The lights blared and she leaned slightly forward—she’d always been told that made her look thinner. It was time to say the words she’d practiced. It was time to let alternative truths spill from her mouth like unfortunate stones.
Are we running as futilely as ants scattered by hot water? Are we 30 days, 30 hours, 30 minutes from apocalypse? I run a finger over a fissure in my knuckle that could as easily have been caused by dry air as by punching a wall. Will it heal? Will it matter?
Fatalism is a quagmire of hopelessness, and yet, on certain nights, I hear the warning sirens in my head, and I wait for the crackle of my own skin. We are so very close to midnight, and it is difficult to imagine the clock turning back.
He shook the rain off his coat and settled himself across the table at their bar, chosen for its unpopularity—neither party in town had adopted it.
She had already ordered bottles of cheap beer, and she was half into her own, which meant she squeezed his hand across the table sooner than he expected. How are you doing?
I may not make it, he answered. Everything is so empty there, and no one understands the light switches.
She tilted her head. Starting a new job is always hard, she replied, but shouldn’t you expect more?
100 Proof 