For him, everyone closes like a dandelion at dusk but I leave my patio door open as the day had been muggy and I was trying to cool down the apartment. The screen was closed, as always, to keep the wasps and other rodents out. Late afternoon tomorrow, there will be no use for screens as the walls will be covered with dripping honey and the bees will do their little dance to show others the best place to rob. I know better but turn off the kitchen light.

The nearby parking lots are empty in spades. The single street lights whisper legends about the madness but none stay coherent enough to fluff the pillows and turn down my sheets. The people of the world build one unified fortresses and I eat one of their sacramental crackers but it makes me hunger for emptiness. I wretch and heave and the familiar air comes wafting back to fill my nostrils with saltwater. I’m supposed to enjoy this, right? How else to be a human being.

He has a song that was at first a single sentence with poor grammar. Accompanied soon by the stench of sweat and metal dust, it falls through my fingers as I hold my breath sitting on my least favourite chair. It has a small wooden detail in the armrests that makes it impossible to cut my losses. I did not know he would be on time.

I feel like I’m changing into my dancing shoes. Shiny glass skyscrapers replace my solitary one room grass hut surrounded by flower beds filled with Marigolds. He replants loyalty and trust in every new unit I create and I scream his testimony and cover my ears pretending not to see the car crash. I extend my arm to signal left, but I turn right.

At 10:52pm, they all knew it would happen and nod their heads in unison. The shrapnel and twisted metal cause the jaws of life to work in reverse, sealing the wreckage like the last nail in the camel. At midnight, the people will think me heartless and inefficient to cool and warm in the most cost effective way. They will cover me in tar and feathers and call me poor, uneducated, and foolish. They will burn my curtains and open all my carefully canned jars of last year’s harvest.

Late afternoon tomorrow, I will use the feathers to fly away and leave the screen door open, if there still is one.  The bees will be waiting.