My Dancing Wife

Note: A.E. (After-Event) refers to the new dating system in-universe. In the year 2012, a massive solar flare hit the Earth, sending the human race back into the Dark Ages. A Second Dark Ages.

Free City of Paris, Formerly France

September 10^th, 2037 (25 A.E.)

She dances and dances, and I can’t seem to get her to stop. It’s definitely the drink, but Ava rarely gets this drunk. She frequents this bar nearly every night, seeking an escape from our dull life, no doubt. I try to remain calm as I stand in front of her. Her slender body sways gracefully, albeit a bit unsteadily, her long brown hair trailing behind. The R&B music crackles as the record spins on the turntable.

“Ava, we need to go home,” I repeat for the tenth time, speaking in French. “We have work in the morning. It’s not even the weekend yet, Ava.”

She doesn’t respond, continuing to dance with her hands in the air, humming along to the crackling song, a faint smile on her face. She gestures to me with her fingers, trying to pull me into her rhythm.

“We cannot afford to show up late again. Monsieur Justine wouldn’t be so forgiving anymore, especially with your increased drinking; he’s tired of our tardiness and your intoxicated behavior.”

It's as if I'm talking to a wall. I walk over to the spinning record and switch off the player, leaving the room devoid of its previous atmosphere. A few candles cast a dim glow over the bar, most of the tables sitting empty and dark. It's rather dreary, hardly fitting for a night of fun, unless one is as intoxicated as my wife. She continues to dance alone, and without the music, she seems almost frantic, mumbling to herself as she stumbles and nearly loses her balance.

Like mother, like daughter; I hadn’t anticipated Ava falling into her mother’s vice. I can't grasp the allure of addiction; yet like so many, Ava drinks and drinks. I attempt to steady her, but she shrugs me off and blows a raspberry in my direction.

“You're acting like a fool, like a child," I admonish as she squirms against my grip. "Ava, I just want to go home. Can you please stop dancing?"

"I want to dance all night, until the morning, until tomorrow evening!" Ava declares loudly.

"No! We're going home," I assert, pulling her arm with force, attempting to lead her out of the bar. "Ava, the bartender wants to close up for the night!"

"Just one more drink?" Ava pleads sheepishly.

"No. The bar is closing," I insist, managing to guide her towards the door. As I guide Ava towards the exit, I nearly trip over a drunkard I had overlooked when we first arrived - an older man, now completely unconscious from the effects of alcohol. It's a stark reminder of the power of this dominating substance; it holds sway over those who yield to its influence.

I bid farewell to the barkeeper, who acknowledges me with a polite nod of gratitude. Stepping outside, we're greeted by a waiting carriage, drawn by horses. Our driver, Jacque Demont, awaits our company, smoking a cigarette as he gazes up at the moonlit sky.

"Bonjour again, Jacque," I greet him warmly, and he looks down at me with a broad smile, ever the charming man. "I won't keep you too late; I know Michelle is waiting for you."

"Rose is waiting for me tonight," he corrects me. I scoff as Ava stubbornly refuses to get into the carriage. Turning to Jacque, I jest, "Why not convince both of your lovers to join in the lovemaking together?"

"Because Michelle doesn't care for women, and she's unaware of Rose," he responds matter-of-factly. Despite Ava's protests and whining, I finally manage to push her into the carriage. I notice her dress is stained with wine, a problem she'll have to address tomorrow. "Ava, stay put," I instruct her firmly.

Closing the carriage door behind her, I make my way to the front. Climbing up the ladder, I settle into the uncomfortable seat next to Jacque. "Let's get going. I'm eager to get home and get some sleep," I tell him as I settle in.

As we navigate through the city, it's evident that Paris is a broken mess. Dirty streets are lined with thousands of poverty-stricken Parisians, the homeless crisis at its peak. The stench grows worse with each passing year, the pervasive aroma of feces and urine becoming increasingly harsh and unbearable. I can't help but observe the faces of the unfortunate souls inhabiting the sidewalks and alleys; many are diseased or crippled. It's a world that seems unfit for the weaker among us, a stark reminder of the toll taken by the unforgiving sun all those years ago. All that remains in its wake is misery and suffering, humanity stripped down to its truest state.

"Every day it seems to worsen, Paris no longer resembles the gem my folks spoke of. The City of Love? Hardly," Jacque laments.

"The poor clamor for a commune, while the right yearns to resurrect the kingdom. The specter of the Napoleonic regime looms around every corner these days," I remark. Thoughts of the zealous Catholic preacher on my street, a fervent devotee of both the Lord and the Napoleons, flood my mind. Suddenly, a wave of nausea washes over me, my stomach churning with discomfort.

"Hey, are you alright, Monsieur?" I hear Jacque's voice, though it feels distant. My gut twists in turmoil, and I struggle to respond.

"I feel unwell..." I manage to utter between heavy breaths, panic rising in my chest. A suffocating heaviness envelops me, and the world seems to spin wildly around me. The buildings blur into motion, swirling like the stars above, as I struggle to maintain my grasp on reality. I fall forward…the world…

…A brief moment of lucidity…I can see Jacque…he’s looking over me…

As I wake up to the clamor outside, I find Jacque tending to Peter. I shake my head to clear it, but my loose hair falls into my eyes. With a cough, I attempt to gather my bearings, only to realize that another man is assisting Jacque. But my attention is drawn back to my husband—he's not moving.

A surge of panic courses through me as I cough up blood, feeling its warmth on my fingers. I lean back, my head spinning. This isn't the result of drink; something far more sinister is at play. "Disease... not a disease..." The realization hits me with a wave of panic, my mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation. I reach for the door, desperate to escape, but my weakened body betrays me. Fumbling with the handle, I feel a sense of helplessness washing over me. I can feel it—the inevitable approach of death.

Coughing up more blood, I gaze outside to witness someone performing CPR on my husband, a sickening realization dawning upon me: we're both sick. The world begins to close in around me, my senses fading as darkness encroaches. In the midst of it all, there's one last sound, faint and distant, echoing through the void—a haunting reminder of the fragility of life…

Those who passed on this day:

Peter Garnier b. 19^th July 2006 – d. 10^th September 2037 (aged 31)

Ava Lerat Garnier b. 1^st June 2004 – d. 10^th September 2037 (aged 33)