Windfall

I can't tear my eyes away as the bartender fills up the glass. For such a simple task, it's entrancing. Ice. A little bourbon. Some bitters. A splash of fernet, a little twist just for me, my mouth watering as she rubs an orange peel along the rim before sliding it over.

My hand trembles as I reach for the drink, but I only indulge in a small sip. It's sweet and warm. Someone shoves my shoulder, a broad-shouldered man reeking of weed and beer, and I nearly spill. He coughs hysterically, jostling me as his large body shakes, that wet rattle in his lungs making me cringe. We're in tight quarters, so I don't blame him. I don't even mind the coughing. He's covered in soot, an inevitability when you step outside these days—it seeps in as we inhale, bleeding our savage hearts, suffocating our lungs. 

The man apologizes, and I lift my glass in solidarity. He says something; I think he calls me 'ma'am,' but it's too loud in here, and we both laugh awkwardly in response. His red, ruddy cheeks streaked with broken blood vessels have me biting the inside of my cheek to keep unwanted tears from forming. For a moment, we stare at each other. This happens sometimes these days, this quiet recognition. It's part of the reason why I never leave the apartment anymore. And part of the reason why, today, I finally did.

Three months ago, we were told the world was coming to an end, and no amount of scientific or military interference would save us from the pending doom. Some people went wild, indulging in every sick and twisted fantasy, damn the consequences. Some hid away, finding comfort in the solitude, seeking stillness like an arctic winter, as if we could slow the momentum by burrowing away. I was in the latter group.

I've lived years doing all the right things. Eating clean. Exercising, avoiding alcohol. Gluten-free. Vegan. Meditation. Yoga. I did everything they told me to do to live a long, healthy, and happy life.

Staring into the coughing stranger's eyes, we silently plead with each other, seeking acceptance for all the bad things yet to come, forgiveness for all the wrongs we've done and are yet to commit. We clearly handled the news of the apocalypse differently, but that doesn't make us so different. His watery blue eyes blink before the coughing resumes, and he turns away, continuing his boisterous celebration with his friends.

I look back to my bourbon. I was never much of a drinker. I respected my liver too much to imbibe. But I'm slowly slipping into that former category, indulging in every whim and fantasy, wondering what all that effort to be healthy and clean was for. I don't seek early death, but I'm working on accepting it all the same.

Fingers clutching the cool glass, I swirl the amber liquid, breathing in the contents: hints of sweet orange, the licorice from the fernet, the warmth of the bourbon, like a roasting fire. Ignoring the crowd around me, partying like it's midnight New Year's Eve circa 1999 and not a random Tuesday afternoon in 2030, I close my eyes, breathe in the liquor, and take a sip, pretending I'm the only one in the room. Somehow, this small intention silences the space around me, and I'm alone, just for a moment.

There's so much indistinct chatter and music that I can barely make out the bartender’s words, but I can feel the heavy clunk as she plops the plate down in front of me. Maybe there's some benefit to all that meditation because I don't immediately open my eyes; instead, I relish the scent of not-so-fresh basil, cheese, and pasta. When I do look down, I admire the artfully decorated meal. I've not eaten pasta or cheese in years. 

There’s something special about indulging in sense pleasures when you know you’re dying. Everything tastes brighter, richer, better.

I eat and drink and wonder if I'll feel like shit tomorrow, then wonder if I'll care. Before, if I got a migraine, I'd freak out, thinking I had brain cancer, then panic because I didn't want to go through surgery and chemo. And I don't have enough money to cover those kinds of medical expenses; what would I do if insurance didn't cover it all? I don't want that kind of debt. But then, I'd take a couple of aspirin, and the pain would go away, and I'd admit I likely didn't have brain cancer. It was probably just a headache.

After eating, I leave the way I came in, wrapping my scarf around my mouth and nose in an attempt to block the worst of the debris from the nuclear blast. The one from the last war, where every major country played chicken and lost. We're all dying anyway, but that deep, mucousy cough is tough to shake once it takes hold, and I'd rather not spend the next four months—as predicted by scientists for the end of humanity—coughing if I can help it.

What could be looted, was. Some places, like the restaurant I just left, stayed open, the proprietors dedicated to their life's passions, even now as the world ends. Animals, those brave and vicious enough to survive, roam the streets, desperate for provisions they can no longer find in the ruined wild, all of which were poisoned by nuclear fallout.

The streets are quiet yet noisy all at once. No people wandering around, but the earth screams like she’s enraged.

It's hot. Close to the Canadian border, this time of year, it should be cold, but the air is tainted and sticky. Cell phones stopped working ages ago, but the weather app would likely tell me today's air quality was catastrophic. It rains daily; no one lives near the coast, and all the holdouts who refused to leave their million-dollar waterfront homes died in coastal flooding.

But we're inland, and the rain is constant. I wipe the wet dirt from my eyes and walk to my car, the effort to breathe an honest endeavor. The warm feeling in my blood from the bourbon encourages me, and I make another decision I'd not have made months ago.

I find parking, then it takes me a few minutes to walk through the rain, so intense it feels like it's rushing up from the ground. I don't know if she's home. I don't even know if she still lives here, though I doubt she's moved. More importantly, though, I don't know which category she's fallen into. If she's out, partying like there's no tomorrow, because there kind of isn't, or if she's living her life like she always did. Sweetly. Honestly. 

Her chickens are probably dead, the three the city allowed her to care for in her backyard. Not that an ordinance would matter these days, but there's no way they'd survive in this environment.

I knock. There's no answer, but I wait and try again.

Just before I'm about to give up and head home, return to my life of abstinence, chalking this entire day up to failed experimentation, the door swings open. She smiles, and god, she lights up the universe. Her eyes sparkle in a way I haven't seen in what feels like years; maybe it's just the stark contrast of her beauty against the backdrop of a wilting world. But then the coughing starts. She can't take a solid breath so I rush in, quickly closing the door behind me. 

I run to the kitchen and pour her a glass of water, finding a filtered jug in the refrigerator. Though the filter doesn't do shit, everything is too contaminated and poisoned. But she takes the water and drinks it down greedily.

Her coughing subsides, and then there's quiet. No noise save for the wind and rain whipping around outside the rattling windows. 

We broke up, but for the life of me, right at this moment, I can't remember why. None of the reasons feel important. She seems to feel the same because we stare at each other. Like that guy in the bar, we let the world disappear and seek acceptance. I lift my shirt over my head, and she helps, her fingers shaking, scratching against my skin in desperation. When my shirt comes off, hers is next, and we touch and kiss and fuck like the world is ending. Because it is.

After, we lay down on the kitchen floor, not having made it very far. Naked and sweaty, she coughs, then curls up in a ball, unable to keep the soot clear of her lungs. Her death is inevitable. So is mine. But I know, unequivocally, I'm done seeking quiet stillness. There is no arctic winter, only chaos and rubble.

I never return to my apartment, and we live like there's no tomorrow because there kind of isn't.