It has been long enough since the end of the world that it’s rarely a conversation topic of interest anymore. We mostly complain, just like we did in the old days. The usual kind of complaints, like when the market on the river runs out of fish and older men shout, “How the hell does a riverside market run out of fish?” same as before when coffee shops would run out of dark roast. It makes me laugh most of the time, especially when it’s because they’re being consumed by a pack of wolves or fall from a tree and they grumble, “I survived the apocalypse and this is how I die?” with the appropriate huff as their last breath. Personally, I’ve been working on my gratitude because in my life before this one I was never that grateful.

One of my most recent gratitudes, which I carve as a list into the side of the tree by my home, is writing. Just a few months ago a post-apocalyptic gang discovered a newspaper factory, untouched by those who still remain. Inside were hundreds of gallons of ink and nearly infinite paper. It turned this traditionally violent gang into quite the businessmen, making me one of their regulars. Once every few days, which I assume are Tuesdays but everyone’s lost count, I head to the market to buy ink and paper for my typewriter.

Funnily enough, being a writer is a far more profitable career after the world has ended than before it did. Most things didn’t survive the global warming caused fires, hurricanes, and other natural disasters. Libraries were commonly swallowed whole by the earth. So everything I write, from poetry to short stories, sells pretty quickly. I was only a kid when things turned sour on this planet, but I still heard the whole speech of why my passion for writing wouldn’t take me anywhere. I never planned to follow my passion as a result, but when my parents died and I was alone in a treehouse of my own making I figured there was no better time than now. That’s another item on my wooden gratitude list: free time. 

Everyone has evolved into that west coast time I hear so much about from old timers. They tell stories about the suits of the east and the surfers of the west, and they seem genuinely happy to announce life has fully evolved into the west’s slow, live-in-the-moment energy. No one misses the busyness, not even those who used to be businessmen. There’s an entire colony where I assume New York City used to be, full of previous stockbrokers and CEOs who decided to spend the rest of their lives growing and smoking marijuana. All the money is gone, our economy reduced to an ancient barter system, but they enjoy that at least the best green remains. People still spend their time differently, of course, but the options are infinite. Those who continue on like nothing ever happened make the most of their days, like the scientists who discover new creatures created by radiation and the evolving environment. Sellers at the market sometimes trade their goods for things they need, but most of them just like collecting artifacts of the new world. Some people, who probably watched too many sci-fi movies in their past, create biker gangs or disappear into forest tribes. Everyone handles grief differently, I’ve heard.

I enjoy the simplicity of this time. I was so young when it happened that I don’t have much to miss. Distant memories help me visualize scenes. Busy train stations where my parents yelled at me for curiously wandering off; our house with it’s aesthetically unappealing perfect garden; medicine cabinets full of pills that could force your body to feel any way you’d like. These are the things I sometimes write about because they sell the best. People are fond of remembering. I prefer writing about life now, though, like the nature consumed concrete cities and contemporary fashion resulting from everyone sowing their own clothes. Like I said, it’s all about focusing on gratitude.

❃

In a time centered around survival, there is no better friend than yourself. Still, I have managed to find some decent external connections. The man who works the paper and ink stand, for example. He says his name was Paul before, but it sounds weird coming out of his mouth now so he tells everyone to call him Flow. Flow gives me decent discounts on my purchases in return for commissions. Some days he’ll ask me to write him a love poem, even though I’ve never been in love before. Other days he wants stories about heroes and insists I name the hero Flow each time. They’re not my favorite pieces of my work, but they’re good practice. Plus, Flow has endless compliments about my writing the next time he sees me which always feels great.

There’s also Mona, who swears we were in the same first grade class together as kids but I doubt it since I walked hundreds of miles before choosing to stay here. I don’t mention my doubt, because I’m sure it feels good to feel some connection to her distant childhood. She’s probably who I’d consider my best friend if that concept still exists. We usually sit in silence at my house, which she even helped build. She claims she likes me because I’m the smartest person around just because of my writing. Regardless of how many times I tell her writing is about emotions, she still thinks it’s about good ol’ fashioned intelligence.

Right now, in the heat of what I can only guess is August, Mona is sitting on my unevenly constructed porch. She’s pantsless because no one cares about that kind of stuff anymore, especially not Mona.

“I had a one night stand last night,” Mona says, interrupting the silence. While I appreciate the unique lifestyle I’ve found myself in during my early twenties, Mona is constantly trying to make up for what she’s lost. It’s not totally surprising though, because I never dreamt of my college experience the way little Mona once did.

“With who?” I’m typing away, writing a poem for Flow about the bees and the flowers which I can only assume is really about sex. 

“A fisherman named Javier, and it was actually a pretty good time,” she replies, staring off into the distance. “I think you should try it sometime, Star. You can do it with Javier, I really don’t mind. And anyways, better safe than sorry right?” 

“I haven’t changed my mind. I’m still not interested in having sex.” Each time I say this, Mona can’t hide her disappointment. I think she’s looking for a sorority sister type of friendship, bad girls who giggle about their poor decisions. Maybe if life had gone according to plan I could’ve done that with her, but there are no Planned Parenthoods to heal STDs or rid yourself of unwanted pregnancies. Or if I’m not straight, which could be a possibility, I haven’t met enough people to figure it out.

“Okay, then can I tell you about the experience?” 

This is something she enjoys doing and I never reject, because if I’m not going to have sex at least Mona’s stories can help me write more accurate scenes.

“So I’m at the market buying groceries or whatever right? Then this little boat pulls up and I immediately notice this guy, he’s like six foot five and beefy and five shades darker than me. Never seen him before, ever. You know me, I introduce myself and twirl my hair and bat my pretty lashes. He says his name’s Javier and he has an hour long break if I’d like to go out on the water. So he rows us not even a mile down the river before tying his boat to this tree, right? And I’m like, ‘Are you about to take advantage of me, Javier?’ He gets all flustered, it was so funny Star, he gets bright red and is like, ‘No! I think I had the wrong idea about what we were doing.’ I’m a great flirt, like, you’ve seen me at it, so I say, ‘Don’t be silly, you had exactly the right idea.’ So I pulled down his pants, no underwear of course, like man do I miss when men wore underwear! Anyways, his dick is the biggest I’ve ever seen, like I didn’t know they made them like that anymore what with the radiation and everything. He spits on his hand, getting all ready, and then goes at it. I liked that we were right by the market, the thought of getting caught is so hot even though no one would really give a shit. And this is why it was so good, because with how little anyone is getting it these days men usually last two seconds. Their dicks are just limp right after entering you, you know? But Javier must find a lot of action rowing down the river, because his lunch was way more than an hour long if you know what I mean. That was the first time I actually came in, like, a really long time. So if you’re ever feeling horny and you see Javier, I recommend riding his boat.”

Mona cracks herself up with the last line, so I offer a fake smile and shake my head. You can’t really be picky about your friends these days, even if your interests are wildly different.

“Hey,” she continues, “do you want to go to a party with me tonight?” 

“Wait, people still have parties?” This genuinely attracts my attention, because I’ve only heard stories about parties. Alcohol is hard to come by since most of what was left of it was consumed in the first few years, and there are rarely the right kind of people gathered in one place to have a party that doesn’t end up violent. 

“I mean, yeah, it’s been a long time since we had a good one near us, but there’s one tonight. It’s in the city so it’s like thirty miles away, but I am not going to miss out on this opportunity to meet new people.”

“How are we going to get there in time? The sun is in the middle of the sky, there’s no way we’ll make it.” My words perk Mona up, hearing me say “we” as if I’ve already decided to come. 

“Javier will be at the dock in one hour to pick us up. Ugh, yes, I’m so glad you’re coming! I really thought you were going to have a stick up your ass about this, like always. This is going to be such a good time! Let’s go inside and start getting ready right now. I brought berries we can mash into makeup and some clothes I’ve been saving for something like this.”

My decision is ripped from me as Mona jumps into action, dragging me into my house and up the ladder to my room. She mashes the berries, rambling on about her goals for the evening which mostly includes sex and hopefully drugs. I take the time to do a gratitude check, looking around at my house. If life wasn’t disrupted so brutally I probably wouldn’t be able to afford a home, but here I am. There is a kitchen downstairs, with a bucket and a lake-connected hose in the form of a sink, an insulated box imitating a fridge, and a metal container creating a makeshift stove. A green couch that took me the entire day to drag from the market is in what I consider my living room, even with a rug to complete the look. A rope ladder leads to the second floor, my bedroom. Instead of a cushion beneath me, my bed is just a pile of old blankets and pillows like a bird’s nest. Mona insisted that I have some luxury in my house, so we built a dresser from scrap wood and placed a mirror on top that doesn’t have too many cracks in it. It feels more like home than the drywall and electricity of my childhood home ever did. 

“I’ll get you ready first so that you can try on these dresses.” Mona leans towards me, using her fingers to wipe blueberry jam on my eyelids and strawberry jam on my lips. She pours water on my legs and runs a dull blade along my skin, removing months worth of leg hair. She brushes my hair with an old comb, snips off stray strands with her blade. When she’s done and I try on the first dress, Mona stares with her mouth hanging open for a while before finally saying, “Don’t even try on the other dress, this looks way too good!” 

In the mirror, I’m genuinely astonished. Most of the time I have dirt caked into nearly every crevice of my body, long and untamed hair all over, and dried blood somewhere on my face. Right now, though, I look like who I might’ve been in another life. I look put together, as if I shower and groom myself regularly. My transformation is far more drastic than Mona’s, since she imitates normal life as much as she can by being probably the only woman left in the world who still shaves and does her makeup. A rare thought comes to my mind and I cherish every second of it: I look beautiful.

❃

By sunset, Javier has taken us to the northern end of the river. He carries us in his arms to the shore so that we don’t get mud on us, saying, “In a world like this, we must preserve beauty like that.” I sit on a boulder staring at the city skyline while Mona thanks him in the best way she knows how.

“Are you ready for this?” Mona says, which elicits a sudden cloud of anxiety in my gut. This is one of those rare things that remains, having anxiety before a party. The only difference is I can’t change my mind, because if I stayed here by the river waiting for her she’d return to a corpse.

“No. What are parties like this usually like?” Internally, I beg her to reassure me even though I’m well aware that Mona is a straightforward person.

“They almost always take place in old, empty factories,” she says in her same even, unfaltered tone like always. A long time ago I concluded that she wants normal so bad she’s got one foot out of reality, never considering the heightened danger we now live in. “Usually there’s a few vendors, at least one serving food but like mostly for drugs. There are designated rooms for certain activities, of course. Most of the people who come are our age, but you always have the older people who live like they’re young, you know the type. I don’t know, I’ve always had a good time. Don’t stew in your anxiety, you’ll have a shitty time if you do.”

Cities are scenes that most realistically show how fast the world turned upside. Everything looks mostly the same but emptier. Cars with their doors and trunks left open; stores with money still in the register; even people sitting at tables eating as if on their work break. In the years that solidified this as our new normal, the initial crime sprees decreased. Once people realized life would continue on however they wanted it to, there was less inclination to meaninglessly kill others. Sure, they’ll rob you but that’s not much of a change.

On the outside of the factory is a sign, no longer illuminated, of a soda brand that used to make millions every year. Tonight it’s decaying windows rattle from the beat of music within. Inside there are so many voices echoing at once that it becomes one hum, spreading goosebumps across every inch of my skin. My entire life I’ve had a love hate relationship with crowds and that has remained consistent. The entrance of the party is through what used to be an export garage, some ports with trucks still parked in them now serving as rooms for the various activities Mona mentioned. There is no one there to check I.D. or decide if the party is at capacity because there is a shortage of fucks to give especially in a place like this.

“We should try to get a drink first,” Mona practically shouts now that we’re in the middle of the ghastly hum. This means heading towards stands, each with a respective employee to serve whatever goods they’re offering. Since I never got the chance to go to a bar or club before, I assume that this isn’t so different from what they were like. Stories tell me that they were just as dirty and unregulated as the party I’m currently attending. Shouting to a woman behind the bar, Mona asks, “What do you have?”

She hands us a piece of cardboard with a list of drinks and their main type of alcohol. See? I’m not really missing out on that much. I heard the quote, “Life imitates art,” in a museum my parents once brought me to, but nowadays it seems more appropriate to say, “Life imitates life.”

Mona, fully aware of my cluelessness, orders us two “new world orders” which consist of water that’s been soaked in lavender flowers and expired tequila. If it were a male bartender she’d probably do her preferred payment, but the only alcohol served here is by this woman so Mona trades the drink for a bag of blue pills. The drink is okay tasting and makes my stomach rumble with uncertainty, but I finish it because Mona bought it for me.

Under the weight of slight intoxication, I can now observe the crowd with more ease. More than anything else, I’m looking for stories to write for the fearful readers who would never venture this far out but are still curious about it. These kinds of stories buy me enough food for well over a month, which I use as my reasoning for this adventure being worth it. Even unbound by law or routine, my days find themselves alike in structure. In this moment, void of anything resembling structure, I follow Mona’s lead to the middle of the crowd where she begins to dance. Well, dance is a loose term for what’s happening around me. Clearly most of the people here are enjoying some form of drug, translating dancing into swaying with closed eyes. The music is powered by the factory’s supply of back-up generators, which even slightly drunk I criticise in my internal monologue. I’ll need another drink if I’m going to move my body even relatively like my fellow partiers.

Like a scene from a movie, this is exactly the thought I have before being offered a drink. She’s taller than me, with short dark hair and blue eyes that you can see even in the poor lighting. “Would you like this drink? Don’t worry, all the roofies are long gone so you can confidently take this.” She winks, which I’m sure is meant to be charming but only makes me more unsure. Nonetheless, Mona sideyes me long enough to push my anxiety to the side. The drink tastes like cinnamon and a darker liquor. 

“What’s your name?” my new friend says, leaning her mouth right beside my ear whenever she talks, giving me even more goosebumps. “I’m Keara.”

“Star!” I shout, too nervous to mutually invade her personal space. “What are you doing here?” Immediately I worry that the question comes off weird, but is there a point in overthinking in a world focused solely on survival?

“Meeting pretty girls,” Keara replies, this time holding my arm as she talks. “What are you doing here?”

I look for Mona, anticipating her approval as the first flirty conversation of my life unfolds, but she’s gone. Maybe she’s just lost in the crowd or she’s already found her lover for the night, but either way I try to procrastinate on my inevitable freakout. I look back at my flirty friend, pretending her bright blue eyes are a sign of safety. This is my logic in concluding that if I can’t be anchored to Mona, well why not Keara?

“Looking for something to write a story about.” 

The crowd is an unforgiving mass, consuming people just as frequently as it spits them out, creating a wave of movement that eventually pushes Keara and I chest to chest. Wishing the fear will melt into confidence, I don’t move away from her as her hand rests on the back of my head as if to protect me.

“Follow me and I’ll show you where the best stories are written,” she says. Hand in hand, navigating a crowd of distant beings, I allow the will of the world to take me. 

Once broken from the crowd, Keara drops my hand and lets me follow on my own accord. I imagine telling Flow about this tomorrow, the way he’ll tell me nights like these are exactly why he picked his name. Walking in an almost straight line, the two of us slip and swerve through the blurriness of bodies orbiting the crowd. Through a doorway, down a hall, and up a few flights of stairs, the frequency of people and noise has dwindled to just us. On the final door we pass through is a sign: THOMAS WILMINGTON, CEO. The office has already been rummaged through, drawers left open and various office supplies on the floor, but that’s not why we’re here. We’re here for the balcony, Keara sliding the glass door open and taking a seat on the edge with each leg through the railing to dangle freely. Beside her, I sit with my legs crossed cautiously. In the hurry to get up here I forgot about my emerging drunkenness, but now it warms my entire body.

“What do you think? Is this worth writing about?” she says, referencing the balcony’s view.

I have done a decent job avoiding the bigger picture in a life people used to write fictional books about. In my handcrafted home, by the tree with a gratitude list, I think only of infinite freetime, typewriter pages, my favorite fruit at the market. The other facts of this life don’t gnaw at me, per say, but they do take refuge in the dark parts of my mind. Before the exploding satellites turned off TVs forever, the last count of casualties was 53,784,387. When regulars at the market stop showing up, no one bothers to go looking. A few nights a week, screaming can be heard from miles around. Knowing all of this, all I’ve ever done to cope is look for more things to carve into my tree. That’s what makes this view so haunting and simultaneously beautiful. Neurons firing away in the form of my thoughts tell me that millions have died here, with crumbled buildings and distant fires to prove so, but I’m in awe of what I see anyways. Vines have crawled through windows and bricks to reach the sun again; music radiates from other buildings with events just like this one; for the first time in hundreds of years, there are visible stars above a city. From this perspective, the destruction looks a lot like reincarnation.

“It’s hauntingly beautiful,” is the sum of my thoughts I offer to Keara.

Her response is lighting and offering a joint she had in her pocket, saying, “It’s weed and tobacco, so you’ll feel nice but you won’t get tired.”

I inhale, holding it in my lungs from what I know in theory but never practice, letting out a minimally visible cloud of smoke. I clear my throat so I won’t cough, maybe to save myself from embarrassment or maybe to impress Keara, I can’t tell.

“I lied by the way,” she says, relighting the joint as she inhales. Smoke deep in her lungs, she continues, “I don’t actually come to parties to meet pretty girls. You just looked really anxious and I thought you might like to the get fuck out of that crowd.” She exhales nothing visible.

“So then why do you come to parties? The real answer this time.” I finally slide my legs through the railing, absorbing her confidence. 

“I don’t know, to just be I guess.”

“Be what?”

“A person!” She shakes her head at me, smirking. “You know, like when you do something to feel alive? To feel like you aren’t existing just to get to the next day?” She flicks the finished joint off the roof and we watch it disappear towards the earth. “Do you do anything to just be? Clearly you don’t go to parties much.”

I feign offendedness, retorting, “I told you, I’m a writer. I write entire stories about being, thank you. I’ll have you know I get paid pretty well for doing so, too.”

“I really hate to break this to you, because you seem nice and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but writing is most definitely the opposite of being.” 

“Are you fucking with me right now? Writing is the epitome of being!” My words make her laugh so hard she snorts, which makes me laugh. I take a deep breath and finally give in, “Explain to me how writing is the opposite of being, please.”

“Writing is about being anything you want,” Keara says, her voice some degree more serious than before. “There are no limitations to the worlds you can create or the person you can be. If you’re flawed, you can construct your own character development arch. If you’re bored, you can create conflict that you know will have a resolution. It’s too perfect to be anything real. And I should know, anyways, because I was a writer before all this shit went down. I love my retirement from perfect little worlds.”

I want to soak in her words, let her logic rent space in my mind, but she’s undermining my reason for living so the words fall out unexpectedly, “Well I’m not going to stop writing.”

“I’m not asking you to.” For a moment, I think she might kiss me. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking or maybe her eyes really are a shade darker, as if she’s a predator closing in on me, her prey. Just as quickly as the moment ignites, though, it fizzles like our finished joint.

“So did you come here with anyone?” 

Somehow I forgot about Mona. She was supposed to be the barrier between me and anything intense happening to me, but I let the intensity pull me to the top of the building. 

“Uh, yeah, I came here with my friend but she disappeared before we came up here,” I reply, looking back out at the skyline.

“Oh, should we go looking for her?”

“No, she can handle herself. You already found the one who needed to be saved. If I know Mona as well as I think I do, she is in whatever room you go to for a quick fuck.”

Keara’s eyes widen before she laughs, “If she knew she was going to disappear, why did she bring someone who probably shouldn’t be left alone? Actually, better question, how did you two incredibly different people become friends?”

The scene of our meeting lays itself out in my mind as I attempt to make sense of it. “Well, I had just walked like three hundred miles or something before I felt like I found the right place to live. It’s somewhere down the river that flows south of here. I mean really it’s just a market by the river and everyone lives pretty far apart, but I guess that’s what I like about it. It’s a half an hour walk to buy my food, paper, and ink, which isn’t too bad. Plus, other than Mona it’s pretty quiet around there. Anyways, I was collecting materials to build my house and Mona was looking for a good mirror so she can keep wearing makeup and living life like it’s not totally different now. As soon as she saw me she started hitting on me, trying to hook up literally in that pile of trash. I explained that I’ve never had sex and had no intention of changing that, but I did end up asking her to help me move stuff to this tree I liked, which turned into her helping me build the house. So yeah, it kind of went like that.”

“I have so many more questions now.” Instead of asking them, we sit in silence for a while. I’m pretty sure we’re both taking in the moment around us. Even this far up we can still hear people roaming the streets, cursing and moaning and being alive. I do feel alive, right now, which forces me to accept that Keara is right. What I feel when I write isn’t what this feels like at all. There is an infinite distance required in writing, but right now I feel like I’m the closest I’ve ever been to myself. It’s about acknowledging what surrounds us, the noises below and the sights beyond, and how they place me somewhere I can actually feel and define. At the risk of being overly dramatic, I consider that this is a feeling I haven’t felt before.

“You’re really a virgin?” Keara finally asks.

I roll my eyes, “I should’ve known this would be your first question.”

“Well my second question is about why you walked hundreds of miles just to be here, so you can answer whichever you prefer.” 

“Alright fine,” I say after scoffing at the ultimatum. “I just never got to that point yet with anyone and now it just seems so risky. At least before there was safety and more ways to find out if they’re the kind of person you want to have sex with, you know? Now it’s like, what has this person done in their new, consequenceless life? Is murder involved in the foreplay or clean up? I mean, I’m not really interested in having pain in my vagina for the rest of my life, even if they are a decent person.”

“Interesting, so your past is more elusive than your sex life, I see,” Keara nods with her finger on her chin like she is deep in thought. I hit her arm, which only makes her laugh. “All I can say is you’re thinking too much. Don’t get me wrong, there is a lot more to worry about now than before, but we’re not supposed to put our lives on hold just for the illusion of safety. You’re just as likely to get killed walking to your market as you are attempting to have a good time with someone.”

“Your logic is too simple, it confuses me,” I sigh. She responds by shrugging.

In this moment of silence, I think of my answer to the second question. Why did I walk three hundred miles to live here? It’s a good question, I know. There are plenty of safer places, if that’s what I’m looking for. There are plenty of more interesting places, more civilized places, more quiet places. I guess, more than anything else, this is where I was when I just got tired of walking.

“My parents died when my hometown flooded. I was at school, on the top floor, so I spent a whole week stuck in a classroom with other kids and the faculty before they got us home. Most kids’ families survived the flood, it wasn’t the worst one we’d have, so they dropped me off at my bus stop and I walked into my home alone. My parents were on the couch. Their skin was swelling and bits of their flesh was on all of the furniture. They had been submerged in the water the whole week I was gone. Something happened to me after seeing that, I guess. Maybe I wasn’t old enough to deal with it. So I spent years acting like nothing happened. At first I would just take my parents money and walk downtown to buy food. Schools closed permanently after the floods, so I’d just sit in my room and read. When people stopped accepting money, I’d just ask people for food until someone felt bad enough for me to not ask for a barter. I read every book in my room and then every book in the rest of the house until there was nothing left to read. I know it must’ve been a very long time, because I was twelve when I found my parents and now I have to be in my twenties, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt like one, really long day. I think it dawned on me when all the books were read and there was nothing left of my parents that I didn’t want to be there one second longer. So I just started walking.”

I’m sure trauma dumping isn’t uncommon to parties of before, maybe just more frequent since we all have trauma now. Either way, I accept that I’ve just told Keara something not even Mona knows about me. I don’t feel very different after drinking and smoking, just a little looser if anything. I could pretend that’s where this came from, but I know that’s not the case. 

“Would you like to go for a walk right now?” Keara asks.

❃

Keara buys us a few drinks to-go, in reused water bottles that I pretend don’t gross me out. We try them all, giving our reviews as we walk through the middle of the street. It’s lighter outside than it was in the factory so I can see more of her now. Most noticeable are the freckles covering her face from forehead to chin. Her teeth are crooked, which in my mind makes her look cat-like. Her lips are big, which only adds to my increasing attraction to her. If I squint hard enough, and under the light of flickering street lamps, I can make out a scar that runs vertically down her left eye. I assume she’s taking more of my appearance in too, but if so it’s hard to tell. She walks and talks like the world unfolds itself with every step she takes. 

“What did you like to write when you were a writer?” I ask as she passes me the fruitest of our cocktail collection. 

“At first, and this is really embarrassing so you better not tell anyone, I wrote articles for one of those stupid internet journals,” she tells me. “You know, like,  three things to do on the first date to ensure there’s a second date. Or, I don’t know, what does this upcoming mercury retrograde mean for your zodiac sign? And one day, out of the blue, I felt like I would literally burst into flames if I wrote one more meaningless article. So I quit, with the most pitiful little savings account, and I started to write a book.”

“No way, what was the book about?” I don’t care that I’m staring at her like I’m in total awe of her, it’s just too nice to be having a conversation I actually care about for once. 

“I didn’t really have a plan so it ended up being about anything that came to mind, you know?”

Barely letting her finish her sentence, I say, “Well can I read it?”

“I never finished it. You need to pay more attention, Star, I already told you that I’m retired.”

I’m disappointed, of course. It’s been years since I’ve read anything other than my own writing. But for the first time in our whole conversation, Keara sounds genuinely frustrated. Despite my body tingling with excitement at the thought of reading her half-written book, I let it go.

“So what are the three things you have to do to get a second date?” I ask, getting comfortable in the subtle flirting I’ve learned from Keara.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She laughs, chugs the rest of the drink, and throws the bottle on the ground. Even though the world itself has become a piece of trash, I still wince at the thought of littering. Keara notices. “Okay, okay, forgive me.” 

She picks up the bottle and places it in a trash can that will never be emptied again. It’s the thought that counts. She continues, “Number one, don’t litter in front of an obvious environmentalist. Just kidding, let me remember what I actually wrote. I think number one was… ask a lot of questions. People need to feel like you actually want to know them, it creates the illusion that if you were in a relationship they could tell you anything.”

“Is that always an illusion?” 

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I got paid per word so I’m not even sure what was real and what was bullshit. Number two, don’t be too direct when you flirt. You have to leave them wanting more, you know? You want them glancing at their phone, waiting for your name to pop up. Or, I mean, at least that’s what people used to want anyways. Finally, number three is that you want to have an air of mystery. Don’t tell them all of your issues or traumas right away, appearing perfect for a little while makes them crave you.”

“Well, fuck,” I say. “Wish you told me this sooner. You did all of those right but I fucked up on the third one, didn’t I?”

Keara looks at me, never losing confidence in her steps, and says, “Is this a date?”

“You tell me, you’re the one who took me to the balcony and then took me on this walk. All of this was your doing, if I recall correctly.”

“Very observant, leave it to me to ask a writer on a date and end up exposed. Just so you know, you didn’t fuck up on number three. I did. When I wrote it I was ignorant about how important vulnerability is. I love that you were vulnerable with me.” Keara lets the conversation fall gently into silence again, leaving me with my first case of butterflies swarming my stomach. I wonder if this is what Mona feels with all of her different hook-ups, or if maybe this is what she’s actually looking for? 

We take random turns and illogical shortcuts, making up stories about our sights as we go. We fabricate one couple’s break up at the peak of the apocalypse, which explains a car we pass with dead flowers shut in the passenger window. The words “see you later” spray painted on a brick wall were made by a mystical being who promptly walked through the wall and into another dimension after committing the vandalism. A world in between before and now forms because of our words. An abandoned pillow fort built inside a mattress store is the remnants of a family now traveling across the country in search of a real home. Together we are mastering being alive and rewriting reality in the same moment. A plastic bag of unopened ingredients was dropped by a hopeful mother, using this destruction to relocate her individual identity. I want to live in the world we’re creating, despite my certainty that Keara is happy with the world we already exist in.

I imagine my other non-apocalyptic life, where I check my watch and realize it’s 4:03am and I have work in the morning but maybe I don’t care because I’m finally happy. Instead, this reality voids time as meaningful and there’s no way of knowing what hour we’re in. Each version offers the same feeling; whether our time is limitless or limited, I want more of this moment. Human beings have always attempted to devour incalculable things like memories, with or without the capacity to measure it. 

Keara and I are consumed by a gust of wind as we pass over a bridge, one that steals gravity from our hair and encourages us to spin in circles for no reason. Keara shouts, “We’re alive!” with both hands in the air and no need to prove that this is true. It amuses me to imagine a reality in which her littering is a red flag or I can’t let go of her vanished book, things that might’ve bothered me to unfair levels if humanity wasn’t on it’s way out. Each moment is both more and less meaningful when we lack the certainty that another will follow.

“What’s on your mind?” Keara asks as we swing at a park in the middle of the city. 

“How long will we keep walking? Will we have to part ways when the sun rises? Does our time have an expiration date?” I’m honoring the rewriting of her silly article, imagining that number three was actually to be as vulnerable as possible on your date. 

“How long do you want to keep walking? Do you want to part ways? Does anything real have an expiration date?” she replies. I know she’s intentionally trying to annoy me, but it’s working far too well. 

“Since you’re making me say it, it’s your turn to be vulnerable.”

“I’ve killed someone before,” Keara replies, studying my expression. I must look mortified, because she follows up by saying, “Okay, it was in self defense when I was being robbed and almost assaulted, but it still counts.” One word orbits my mind: unbelievable.

“Confessing to murder is easier than telling me how you feel about me?” It’s the most serious tone I’ve had all night, sending Keara into a distant silence. I can’t tell what comes next, her validating our connection or her joking that only virgins develop feelings in one night. In any case, I’ve handled a lot worse. 

Without words, she jumps off the swing and continues to walk. I follow like a loyal companion, but her energy doesn’t imply that my presence is unwanted. As the grass transforms back into concrete, the two of us catch the attention of a wandering group. Their shouts are indistinguishable at first, until the syllables become clear and they move closer.

“That dress looks real good on you, girl,” one of them sings. Keara grabs my hand, pulling me arm to arm. I can’t help but think that at least my death will be a good story, as opposed to a random gang beating somewhere around my house. Maybe they won’t kill us, maybe they’ll use us and leave us. It’s not like there’s anyone to report this to, plus I can finally tell Mona I lost my virginity.

I don’t know what Keara is thinking, but she’s clearly on a mission to preserve my purity. She pulls me firmly in the other direction of them, as if this won’t encourage them to start running after us. Which is exactly what happens next. The one who mentioned my dress is beside me in less than a minute, grabbing my arm and immediately kissing me. His mouth is foul, a mixture of smoke and meat.

Seconds after kissing me, he’s flying backwards as if gravity is suddenly stronger. It takes time for me to process the blood on Keara’s knuckles, the realization that she sent him flying. We all stand still, watching him wipe the blood from his nose.

“You bitch!” he yells. His two friends are obedient and obviously lost in their new lives. They wait for him to make the first move so they know what to do next. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”

When I made my religious-like journey north, I saw a lot of violence. I suppose it was luck that the violence I witnessed was never happening to me. Sometimes I wondered if I was just a ghost under the illusion that I was still alive. In retrospect, I was probably as noticeable as a speck of dust to most chaos lovers. Easily I would slip behind walls or beneath cars, acting solely as an observer to the way some people handled all encompassing freedom. Only now, Keara to my left and three men in front of me, did I graduate from observer to victim. Hope isn’t on my mind, something uncertain floods my brain instead, maybe an accumulation of all that I had witnessed starting with my parents. Whatever it is, it’s ready.

I walk calmly towards him. This isn’t about making decisions, it’s about letting go of them. I sit down on his abdomen, each leg on either side of him, my exposed underwear pressing against him. I clean the blood from under his nose, wiping it off on his dirty shirt. The silence would’ve been excruciatingly loud if I wasn’t currently under the control of something bigger than myself. He grins. I don’t know when I start or finish, but for as long as I need I slam my fists into his face. Only minutes ago I was imagining my own death, certain that nothing like this existed inside of me. 

Whenever it ends, he falls unconscious as his mouth gargles his own blood. My hands are vibrating with numbness as I stand up and spit on his body. In spite of my small stature and feminine appearance, the other two men stare at me as though I am an untamed animal. 

“What are you doing here? Get the fuck out of here.” I don’t know how or why, but they listen. They become specks of dust disappearing into the distance.

I’ve always found violent behavior unattractive, so my first and only concern is that Keara is appalled by me. She’s staring at me with a blank expression, an infinite number of responses possible but my returning anxiety assures me there’s only one option.

“I’m sorry,” I say, beating her to words so I can save myself. “I have never, ever done anything like that before and I promise you it’s not like me at all. I don’t know what came over me, I just-“

It takes her just a few steps to be chest to chest with me before she kisses me. Her taste is far superior, fruity from drinks and salty from sweat. Her palms are calloused and rough in a way that makes me feel safe as she holds my face. In the way she kisses me, I find all the answers to the questions I’ve been asking.

In my head, where the past and future meet, I can hear the ghosts of sirens wailing. In reality, we are alone with only wind weaving between leaves. It is getting lighter out, the sun tempting us to leave but we have no where we want to go. Only a mile from the park we spent an unknown amount of time swinging in, Keara easily leads us to the convenience store and the offer behind it. 

There’s a couch in the breakroom where she presses her body on top of me. A swarm of adrenaline, alcohol, and post-high delusion makes our movements blend together. The sunrise bleeds onto the walls through cracked windows as Keara navigates my unexplored body. The blood on our hands writes a map on each other’s skin of all the places we touch. Inside of one another or a part of one another, I can’t tell the difference, we both rise and fall to the flow of our bodies. When I finally notice that I’m crying, Keara tilts my chin up to show me that she is too.

❃

Outside the soda factory, Mona is yelling at hungover crowds like a mother who lost her child. Keara and I giggle at the sight until Mona finally notices us.

“Where the fuck have you been?” she yells, barely acknowledging Keara’s wave. 

“She murdered a guy,” Keara says nonchalantly. “And then I took her virginity in a convenience store.” Finally, someone who knows exactly how to get Mona to stop talking.

“Is that a joke?” Mona replies, lost between the feelings of confusion and anger.

I can’t help but watch the dispersing crowd, groggy and sweaty humans coming apart like stardust from a supernova. Where could they be going? I’m sure some of them have made homes, like me, where they’ll sleep off their diminishing aliveness. Some of them never sleep, I’ve learned, just taking uppers and downers to drift wherever they want to go. A crowd of people leaving a party looks so normal it makes me laugh.

“So it is a joke? Why are you laughing?” Mona’s presence reenters my consciousness. 

I suppress my laughter and finally answer, “It’s not a joke. I beat the fuck out of a disgusting man and then I had sex.” Keara runs her fingers along my back, writing messages in a language only we know.

Mona is speechless, so Keara takes over, “I should get going.”

“What? No. Come with us to my place,” I say, looking right in her eyes. Finally, enough light to really see them. It’s like looking straight through her at the sky. “It’s not like you have a job or anything.”

“Hey!” she scoffs. “We’ve all found purpose in some way or another, right? Anyways, don’t you have a story to write about all of this?”

“You can help me, you’re probably a better writer than me,” I plead. Letting her go feels harder than walking away from my parents all that time ago. “Don’t go.”

Mona watches us in astonishment, the reality unfolding in front of her. Grounded in our earnest goodbye, she finally finds her voice again, “She has a really nice couch and a great pile of blankets. We’re taking a boat down the river so it’s not a hike or anything.”

“I promised my family I’d come home in the morning, okay?” Keara squeezes my hand, but it feels too real this time. It feels like she’s actually, after this entire night, a real person.

“You didn’t tell me you have a family,” I say, my words barely audible.

Keara laughs, “Well I wasn’t going to shove it in your face. That would be rude. Look, this isn’t goodbye. Draw me a map and one day I’ll appear on your doorstep. It’ll give you something more to look forward to than just your next story.” 

I punch her in the arm before looking around for anything I can use to draw a map. Mona finds a shirt on the street and hands it to me, which I draw on with a stick and a pool of mud. First the factory, then the path to the river, the river, then the path to my house. It’s a poor excuse for a map, but in all of the things we didn’t say I know Keara will follow it.

She kisses me gently, reminding me of the way my parents kissed before going to work. The sentiment, ‘See you soon,’ in the space between our lips. I can’t help but watch as she crosses the visible line of the horizon, an urgency creeping up on me to write it all down so I can never forget the details.

There was a life before this one so I knew there will be a life after it. The same people continue on in a world reincarnating around them, like the hum we first heard that now haunts me.  Nothing looks the same but it is, so where did all the time go? How all the days can blend together before one sunrise offers clearer lines. If there is something to live for now then surely there was something to live for before, when we counted the minutes and always knew where to go. How did I only just find it?

❃