End in Sight by Tyler Wilkerson

I’ll ask, are you ready? and she won’t hear me the first time. She’ll be busy wrestling the damp residue out of her clothes, cursing the dryer for its indolence.

I’ll ask again.

Are you ready?

I’ll be okay with asking again. I won’t get mad or care too much about the wasted words she didn’t pick up. I’ll let them linger on the circular carpet and drag their feet to her ears. I’ll let them climb through to the other side of her head and ooze out down onto the freshly mopped floor below. I’ll have to ask once more.

Are you ready? I’ll say and she’ll shake her head slowly, examining the wrinkles on the front of her black jeans she thrifted centuries ago.

I don’t want to, she’ll say and I’ll sigh loudly like it matters.

You still have to eat.

It’ll be her turn to sigh and she’ll do so quietly, absently.

I just have so much to get done, she’ll say. I’ll swing my feet off the couch and pull myself up onto them.

And eating is one of them, I’ll say, slipping into my sandals. I’ll be back with dinner.

The original plan will have been to get dinner together. We’ve always gotten dinner together. She likes to trick the victims, lure them in with her blonde hair and green eyes. She likes to laugh at their jokes, make them feel more important than their jobs or wives do, and when finally they slip up, say something she doesn’t like, she pounces. She sinks her fangs into their necks, missing their veins intentionally so she has to bite again. Her favorite part is the taste of the foam that spills out of their mouths, sometimes out of their noses.

I’ll go alone, though, and I’ll be okay with it this time.

I’ll come home with a kid no older than 10. They’re sweeter at that age, less stale. She’ll get mad at first, ask me why. I’ll shrug.

I just thought it sounded good, I’ll utter. She’ll glare at me and then down at the corpse on the table. The titles, now stained red with gore, will look up at her begging to be mopped once more.

I just cleaned, she’ll huff. There’ll be a second of silence. One we know well. There’ll be a moment of thought, as if our minds become one and the need to speak evaporates into the clouds. Her eyes will remind me, we don’t eat children, before her salivating mouth can. I’ll ignore that fact, gesture for her to get the silverware while I grab the plates.

I just thought, I’ll say, that we could treat ourselves.

She’ll give in quickly, remove the knives and forks from the sink, and sit at the head of the body. I’ll sit at the shoulders.

Where’d you find him, she’ll ask.

I will have found him at the park. The one downtown, not close to the apartment. He will have been on the swings, gripping the chains tightly, forcing himself too far into the air, imagining what lives live beyond the clouds. I’ll pity him. I’ll pity his imaginative ignorance. He’ll abruptly kick up the mulch when he sees me.

Despicable, she’ll say and all I’ll do is look at her. I’ll start eating, ignore the comment, pretend our friendship isn’t the second thing ending that day. I’ll stare longer at dinner than I will at her. She’ll notice my silent gaze and grow tired of waiting for the conversation to continue. I just, she’ll say, I don’t want to be ready. I don’t want to give up.

This isn’t giving up, I’ll say, biting into a small piece of meat, this is living.

From out the window, a small flash of red will hurl itself onto the ground. I’ll pretend not to notice. She’ll watch it fall. We’ll recognize the view, remember seeing it in the etchings of our dreams. With the end in sight, we’ll pretend to be blind. Part of us will have been hoping our visions were false, as if they’ve been false before. We will have seen the burning of mountains, the flooding of cities, the crumbling of life for the final time on Earth and we will have spent our days secretly ignoring it. Centuries of our history together, so many eras spent in one another’s company, will come to their finish in the kitchen of an apartment cracking at the foundation. I’ll pretend it’s not real, that I’ll have time to finish leftovers. She’ll pretend it’s not real, that she’ll have time to fold the underwear.

More splashes of fire will dart across the window. Sirens will begin their chorus to the gently flowing notes of a piano beneath us.

This isn’t giving up, I’ll say again, looking up into her grassy eyes glued to the fiery drizzle outside. This isn’t giving up.

She’ll turn back to me, curl up the corners of her lips, flash her bloodied fangs, and release a tiny tear to her chin. I don’t want to be ready, she’ll cry, I can’t be ready.

A car will ram itself into the lobby of our building, shaking our cabinets open, shattering our ancient glasses.

I don’t want to be ready. I can’t be ready, she’ll sob. Her reddened face will pour itself into her hands, pull her gaze into her drenched palms. That day, she’ll say, when we first saw this coming…

I’ll nod. The old oak trees will start to snap. Rumbling from within the Earth will subtly shake the table.

I was so confused, she’ll say, and angry. We’ve lived all this time as monsters. We’ve witnessed all of man’s tragedies and we’ve always done nothing.

We had no choice, I’ll say.

We’ve had lots of choices.

Smoke will creep in through the cracks of our doors and walls and floors. The piano’s tune will come to an end, abruptly collapsing into itself.

We have, I’ll admit, and yet the sky is falling onto us just as it is onto them. We can watch it burn, try to make sense of the flames, or, I’ll pause, we can eat.

I’ll look at her, but see only her profile as it stares at the blackening sky outside.

Crackling, creeping fire will waltz into the room. It’ll glide from the doorway to the circle carpet in front of the sink. It’ll probe the pantry, the paints waiting for use, and the perfectly useless mirror in the corridor. It’ll sit with us, eat our dinner faster than us, and as it burns the bite on the end of my fork to a crisp, I’ll watch myself fall alongside the delicate ashes.

Tyler Wilkerson

Image by Alexander Antropov from Pixabay – blazing meteorite