The world ends on a Thursday.
The air that morning is slightly cold, though not as much as the day before. Maria and I take the day off work, because we can, and because everyone else does, too.
At breakfast, we don’t turn on the news. Instead, we make crêpes together.
In the kitchen, on opposite sides of the counter, she cuts up strawberries and I cut up sausages. When we catch each other’s eyes, I wink at her. She laughs, and I steal a strawberry from her bowl.
“That was the last one!” she protests lightly.
“You’ve already cut so many!”
“Fine,” she huffs, “Your crêpe will have less strawberries in it.”
“Mariaaaaa,” I whine, throwing my head back exaggeratedly, “the world is ending, can’t we split the strawberries evenly?”
Maria rolls her eyes.
“Alright, fine,” she relents with mock reluctance, “but only this one time.”
I pump my fist and she laughs again.
We cook the crêpes hip to hip, Maria peering curiously over my shoulder as I pour batter into the pan, as I flip the crêpe, as I grate cheese over the surface, as I place bits of sausage into the slowly melting cheese.
When I’m done, she steps away, handing me a plate.
“I’ll put the tea on so we can drink it with the crêpes.”
“Hey can you make me coffee?”
She pouts.
“Coffee is for work days,”
“Please? I’m kinda tired today. Didn’t sleep well.”
Her expression softens.
“Alright. Should I put cream and sugar in?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
I set up the table in the balcony with a cheerful flowery tablecloth. It’s cloudy outside, and a playful breeze is blowing. Our plants sway gently, sometimes brushing lightly against us. We talk over the lips of our cups and laugh about little things. She steals a sip of my coffee, and I finish the last bits of her tea, because she doesn’t like the bitterness that collects at the bottom.
“I’ll do the dishes,” I offer when we’re done. Maria frowns.
“We don’t need to do the dishes today.”
“I—I know. But I don’t want to leave anything unfinished, you know? It’ll feel weird. I don’t want to feel like—”
I don’t finish my sentence, but Maria understands anyway. She comes over to my side of the table and takes my hand.
“Okay, let’s do the dishes together,” she says gently, guiding me up from my chair.
I hesitate for a moment, feeling fragile and uncertain, but then she reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and we pick up the plates and everything is okay again.
Morning turns to afternoon, and we curl up on the couch and put on a movie.
Outside, it starts to rain, and Maria looks longingly at the windows.
“Let’s go out for a drive,” I say after a beat.
“Do we have enough gas?”
“I filled the tank yesterday.”
She considers this for a moment. I watch as her eyes search the room while she thinks.
In the end, she shakes her head.
“I want to stay here.”
I pull her closer.
“Okay.”
As evening creeps closer, it becomes harder to focus on the movie. Maria’s attention is remains on our old LCD television screen, but I find my eyes wandering back to the window. Clouds float lazily by, but the rain has passed, and the soft, late afternoon sun drifts in through the thin curtains.
I hear the audio of the movie stop. I turn back to Maria.
“I think that’s enough of the movie, isn’t it?” she says, smiling gently.
I look away.
“You were enjoying it,” I protest.
“You weren’t.”
A moment passes, and she takes my hand.
“Let’s make lunch,” she suggests, “I’ll put on a podcast to listen to.”
She gets up, but I stay in place.
“I don’t want to listen to a podcast.”
“How about some music, then?”
The room seems to tilt.
“I... don’t want to do anything.”
Maria sits back down, taking my face in her hands. I lean into her touch.
“What’s going on?” she asks, eyes full of tender concern. I reach up to hold her hands, turning my gaze to the side as I pull them away from my face slightly.
“You know what’s going on.”
Her eyebrows tilt up a little. Her lips press together, corners twitching downwards.
I close my eyes.
“Clare,” she pleads softly.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh, shaking my head a little to dislodge unpleasant thoughts, “let’s go make lunch.”
The floor feels solid again when I stand up.
In the end, we do put on a podcast, laughing in all the same places and slowly gravitating towards each other until I’m leaning against her as she takes salmon out of the pan.
“The pan’s hot,” she warns. I step away to give her space to turn around and put it in the sink.
I put some salad onto each of our plates.
“Balcony again?” I ask. Maria shakes her head.
“Can we sit on the sofa again please?”
I smirk.
“You want to cuddle me that bad, huh?”
“I want to do it while I can,” she shrugs, and the air in the kitchen turns heavy.
I put the plates back down onto the counter, afraid I’ll drop them. I take a steadying breath. It doesn’t help.
“I’m sorry,” she backpedals, “I should’ve said that better—”
“Hug?” I cut in desperately. Maria’s shoulders relax.
“Hug.” She agrees, stepping forward to wrap her arms around me. I can finally breathe again.
“I’m scared,” I mumble into her neck.
“I know,” she soothes, “but it’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not. We’re so close to where it’s supposed to hit—”
“You know it doesn’t matter how close we are.”
“...yeah.”
She pulls away slowly.
“Come on,” she coaxes, “let’s eat. You’ll feel better after.”
“I love you,” I say desperately.
“I love you too,” she smiles.
In the end, it’s not as spectacular as I have imagined in the days leading up to today. It’s beautiful, of course, but the light of the meteor is still eclipsed by the fading sunlight—at least, for now. I hold Maria close, and she laughs and points at how the colours of the sky start to change. There are other people up on the roof of our apartment building with us, pointing, whispering, and—inevitably—crying.
“It’s going to be okay,” Maria promises, even as the light starts to become
unbearable to look at.
“I know,” I say, hugging her closer. I believe her. I’d always believe her.
We close our eyes, and wait for the sky to turn dark again.
Author's note - t