She asked, looking up at me, “you and I find that we don’t love each other anymore? Then you and I, what do we do then?” She fidgeted her delicate fingers about. She almost didn’t want to hear my answer, but I spoke up anyway.

“You and I,” I said, ruffling her pale black -almost dark blue- hair softly. “We’re detectives, aren’t we?” I smiled. “Then we’ll just find why and how we stopped loving each other, so we can fix that. Then we’ll go on loving until we fade away. That’s what love is, right? To allow ourselves to fix each other without leaving. To stand and wait until we’re both ready.” I ran my fingers through her hair, flat due to excessive hat-wearing, probably. “And we love each other, right?”

She nodded, grabbing my hand. “Y-yes, but…” She looked hesitant to ask, but I knew exactly what she was going to say. As to spare her the awkwardness, I put my index finger on her lips, soft and wet, trembling.

“But what if I left? What if you did? Then I’ll wait for you, as you will. Then when we’ve forgiven and forgotten, we’ll come back home.” I leaned down to kiss her. “Happy birthday, dear,” I said, pulling a small necklace out. “I haven’t forgotten, after all.” I put the necklace on her slender, yet long neck. Her dark blue eyes beamed as she touched the ring. The clock struck midnight. Then a very special day became another very special day, because, with her, every day is unique and wonderful.

She’s only seventeen with a heart-shaped scar on her kneecap. She would have ben pretty, her friend Catherine said, if she would actually try and do her hairs and such. She could even get a boyfriend! Only, Sammy’s done with boys. Sammy’s last crush had utterly used her, no matter how much she hates to admit it.

Now, Sammy has a girlfriend. Her name is Joann and she lives in Buckingham. It’s ways from Phoenix, Arkansas, but Sammy still thinks she can make it work. Her awkward and shy Joann. The subject to her fantasy as she touches herself. Her prince in shining armor. Her Joeypie. She hasn’t even seen Joann except for her face, but she still fantasizes about those blue eyes. Sometimes, she drowns in them as she dreams. She wakes up and cries because Joann really wasn’t there with her.

Sammy thinks of Joann every night when her mother yells at her. She likes it better when her mom hits her. Mother never says anything when she hits Sammy. Sammy retreats into her world where Joann holds Sammy gently and everything is okay. She holds her tears as her mother threatens to ship her off to her father. She won’t cry in front of mother. No, mother won’t get the pleasure of making her cry.

In Sammy’s head, Joann kisses Sammy and they hold hands as they listen to Wheatus. They’re just Teenage Dirtbag (Baby) but in her head, everything is warm and fuzzy. Her mother leaves. Sammy closes the door, and the noise excites mother. Mother yells yet again. She leaves again. Sammy’s alone. She closes her eyes and pretends that it’s all right. In her head, every mother beats their daughter and every mother won’t pay for their daughter’s necessities.

Wheatus makes Sammy happy. It’s their music, her and Joann’s. She wants to talk to someone, but she’s suddenly utterly alone. Joann had left hours ago, and her best friend hadn’t talked to her in over a week. She pretends that this is normal, too. Every girl in America has no one to talk to in her head.

Sammy’s curled up on her bed. She doesn’t know why it has to be this way. She’s just so low. She’s so sick of being sick. She looks at the razor contemplatingly. Maybe, she says, maybe. She cries until she’s sobbing. She imagines Joann. Beautiful Joann with blue eyes is holding her while she heaves. She’s so done with her mother. She’s so done with that bruise on her back. She’s so done with everyone. She doesn’t matter to anyone. Even her best friend ignores her. She’s only a minor distraction. Life would go on with or without her. She’s just a teenage dirtbag. She’s so done with having no one to talk to when Joann goes to bed. I’m sorry, she writes on her white desk, I’m so so sorry, Joann. She clutches the razor. She’s standing in front of the mirror.

Sammy lies on the bathroom floor. She feels her beautiful Joann, the warm and pleasant feeling. Joann’s clutching Sammy. It’s not warm anymore. Joann’s eyes. Sammy’s drowning. Her breathing gets more difficult as she drowns. Sammy smiles. Joann, she whispers, I love you. I wish you were here.

I’ve got two tickets to Iron Maiden, baby.

Come with me friday

Don’t say maybe

I’m just a teenage dirtbag, baby

Like you.

She said, sighing into the sentence, “One-sided relationship.” There was an awkward pause and she undoubtedly shifted the phone around yet again. We were on the phone for a good hour. Her ears must be hot.

Me, on the other hand, was on speaker phone. “What of it?” I asked while trying to get the stupid lighter to work. “Isn’t most anything I do one-sided anyway?”

There was a pause again, and she started talking. “It’s just… relationships ought to be two-way. I just… never did give you what I deserved.”

I chuckled. The lighter finally worked. “Spoken like a true annoyance from the other side of the pond.”

“Well,” she said, “I sometimes think it would be easier if we stopped talking.” There was a hesistation as she spoke the words, but I also sensed a hint of resolve.

I lit my cigarette, opened the door, and without a word, stepped outside, which inevitably left the phone by itself, which, in turn, left her talking to herself. Then there were beeps, then there was the quiet.

Then there was nothing but cigarette butts and smokes

I asked her bluntly. “Don’t look away or think I’m insensitive. You know as well as I do that this is a legitimate question.” I tried to appear cold, but it was hard with all the iv hooked up to me. Instead of achieving said goal, I must have looked pathetic, because she grabbed my hand hard and shook her head.

“Stop being silly,” she told me. “If you were to die now, who’s going to tell me to not spend over two hundred dollars on groceries?” The grip on my hand got a bit stronger and a single drop of tear she dropped on my hand left my sick hand with tingles. “Stupid. Don’t leave me.”

I opened my eyes. The light hurt, but it felt good to see her again. Her hair seemed to change color as light moved in and out of my vision. “That’s a bummer,” I said, “I’ve been having trouble remembering your grocery list, so I wanted a long break.” I managed a chuckle that came out as a cough. I decided -with my throat- that talking wasn’t our thing, so I shut up.

“The doctors are going to do surgery on you one more time,” she said meekly. “If you don’t show any signs of improvement, they’ll have to let you go.” I could feel her hand fidgeting in mine. It was a familiar feel, so I relaxed a bit. “Can you hear me?” She asked.

“If I couldn’t, would I answer?” I whispered. “Leave.” The voice, instead of sounding imposing and mature, sounded old and pathetic. “I can’t… I broke our promise.”

She let go of my hand, and for a second, I hoped she would leave. Instead, she sat beside me on the chair. I closed my eye, not wanting to see her upset. “What are you talking about?” She asked. I could practically see the tears in her eyes. Her soft sob filled the room and I let her cry for a bit. I heard her sobs and in my head, I saw her heaving in that small creaking hospital chair with her frail little body.

Heave, sob, creak, heave, sob…

I opened my eyes after a good minute or two, and turned my head all the way it could toward her. “You know why. I can’t give you infinity. I can’t just… cure myself for you. Can’t you see that I’m not the infinity you’re looking for?” I coughed, which I suppose was dramatic enough. “Stop, no. You’re being selfish. It’s my turn to talk,” I scolded her as if she was seven, not twenty-seven. “Look, I’m dying. I know it. Even if I wasn’t, I’d be crippled. I want you to leave me. I can’t have the only person that matters half a damn to me looking at me with sympathy all the time.” I know it was selfish, but I didn’t want her with me when I died. I didn’t want anyone. I came out alone, without anyone. So why should anyone watch me when I finally got decommissioned?

“You…” She said, and shifted in her chair. I knew what that meant, so I tried my best to look her in the eyes. I groaned and flopped until my eyes relatively peered into hers. Then, her eyes met mine and she must have seen what I really meant. Either that, or she was just sick of me. Either case was okay. “I see,” she whispered, and got up and left the me in my misery.

“Live well,” I whispered to no one. “See other people, you dunce. Don’t you fucking dare look back and think you missed anyone.” She was gone. I knew, instinctively, that she would not come back. That was fine with me. I spent the rest of hour looking at the ceiling and thinking. I thought of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, prophetic sonnets, the refuge of art. “The only damned immortality between the two of us,” I said, and fell asleep.

I woke up two weeks later with stitches on my side. Apparently, the removed a bunch of my organs and replaced some and just completely left some out. I’ll be able to function normally, but my legs were still completely dead. I would have to ride in a wheel chair for the rest of my life. “Um,” I asked sheepishly, “Did I get any visitors?” I was relieved and disappointed to know that no one had visited me. But the doctor nonetheless gave me a letter, unopened. “Dear Holmes,” the envelop read.

I’ve been thinking about us. About the infinity you promised on seemingly endless plains of Nebraska. I thought of you and how we met. I thought you and I would grow old, but it was you who grew old for me, and I thank you.

I think I’ll go away like you asked. I’m taking an editing job in London. As you wish, I won’t see you again. But whenever I see crippled old men in wheelchairs who, for whatever reason, just can’t seem to get themselves to be happy, I’ll think of you.

I think I’ll see other people and find that infinity not in infinity, but in pools of finiteness and in making things that last. Now, it’s not to say that I’m not sorry, but I simply think you’re right, as you always say you are.

I’ll still love you, deep in my heart, as you’ve loved the snow, the plains, the highway, and walking. I’ll still love you like you loved dead Russian Authors and alive American Economists.

I’ll miss you.

Your Arlene.

I put the letter back in the envelop the way it came out, and put the envelop in my pocket. “Thanks, Doc,” I muttered, and tried to get up. Finding this impossible, everything set in. I was a cripple now, and she was gone. I had no tears to shed for her because she did what she wanted, and I had gotten what I wanted. Both of us won. So instead of crying, I wheeled myself out of the hospital. The autumn wind blew in my face, and the sunlight shone on my face. It was sunny outside, and today was the first day of the rest of my life. “Viva la morte,” I remembered that’s what I used to say. “Because life’s too short to be not thinking about that last period you’ll put on that book you call you.”

as I stared into the night sky. The wind breezed through the Nebraskan Plains. The plains rolled before my -and her- eyes as a sea would. “It’s alive.” The mad doctor in me wasn’t good enough, I guess, because she just started laughing.

“All right, Dr. Frank.” She nudged me slightly. “It’s good that your mad patchwork plain is alive and all, but it’s midnight and we have no hotel or inn.” She tapped her foot anxiously and at that point, I knew that I had to either find a room or improvise.

“Well,” I said, “We can try this.” I took off my jacket and laid it on the ground. “There’s your hotel.” I threw myself on the grassy plain as someone probably did during the 30s and closed my eyes. “It’s June. I’m sure we won’t freeze to death.”

“What about the mosquitoes?” She asked, waving her hands around.”There are bugs here!” She obviously wasn’t so happy about this, but this was what she wanted when she left, wasn’t it?

“Did you run out of the repellent?” I asked. “You wanted an authentic journey? Well, here’s one.” I uprooted some weed, leaving a portion of ground bare. Then, with a trusty knife, I cut off enough blades of grass to feed an army of locusts and lit a fire. “Reach into my backpack, will ya?” I asked. “In the pocket, no not that one, dummy, the pocket. What else did you think I meant? The- the- no, I mean, yes. Now, hand me the beans in there. Don’t ask me why. Just hand me the damned Soy Beans.” I took the beans and crushed them in my hand over the fire and let the oil sift through the air. “Whiny baby,” I muttered. Knowing what I did was probably equivalent of magic to her, I explained. “Mosquitoes don’t like Soy Oil.” I turned the fire a bit to let the fume out a bit and turned to the side. “You okay?” I asked.

She was staring at the night sky. I don’t know if her pouting was because I called you a whiny baby or because I was especially being abrasive, so I kept quiet. “I’m thinking,” she finally said after what seemed to be forever.

“What about? You don’t do that a lot.” I asked jokingly. I didn’t turn to her to see her face, but I turned to see the night sky. Without the light pollution and the air pollution, the sky seemed oh so clear, and the stars seemed ever so bright. “You know,” I said, taking advantage of the silence. “The Indians thought the sky was a wheel and someone turned it to reveal the sun every day. And they thought -they thought- that the stars were holes in the sky-wheel.” The fire crackled behind me, and I could feel its pleasant warmth running through my body.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered. “I’ve been thinking of finiteness of me, of people, and of us.” She had her face turned away from the camp fire, but I could see that she was flustered. “I mean, here we are, in a field, playing boyscouts in adult skin, not thinking about anything but what we’re eating tomorrow. But are we going to do this forever? I feel like I’ll wake up one day, and you’ll leave me. I feel like we won’t grow old or I won’t see that wedding ring.”

“And here I thought you were getting more interesting and maybe existential,” I said. “Look, I’m 28, possibly alcoholic, and currently a freelance writer. The possibility of me leaving you, an emotionally and financially stable 25-years old with an editing job is slim.”

“So I’m just a job and a meal to you?” She asked. Her voice was shaking, as if she wasn’t sure of me.

“No, you stupid. What I’m saying is, me, a human wreckage that you love, have no one to turn to.” I lit my cigarette, and let it rest in my hand without inhaling. “I can’t promise you the infinity, but I can promise you what little I have.” I inhaled, then exhaled. “It’s a pathetic little piece of real estate in a vast wasteland of time, but you can rest in it forever if that’s what you really want.” I fiddled with the grass I crumpled in my hand, and made a grass ring as I once did when I was eight. I reached for her hand, and put it in her fingers. “Said you wouldn’t see the ring. Well, here it is.” I turned my back against her and pretended to sleep. Within minutes, I actually fell asleep, leaving me unable to hear her response. “And I’m definitely not Dr. Frankenstein,” I muttered, and let the little fairies paint my eyelids with a little western flower.

“I’m all right. I don’t need to talk.” I knew it was a lie as I said it, but I had to say it knowing it was a lie because grown men don’t cry. We let the feeling build up inside of us until we jump off the nearest building.

She flicked her hair as she always did when she was annoyed and softly grabbed my hand. “I don’t think you’re all right,” she whispered. “It’s okay. If you want to tell me, I’ll listen.” She regarded me for a second and added, “Look. I’m not ordering you to tell me anything, but I’m here.”

I looked at her and how close we were sitting together and how warm she was next to me and how soft her hand was grabbing mine. I looked out at the night sky in this unforgiving city, down at my feet too big compared to hers, then back at her who found me crying all alone. “I’ll be all right.” I whispered.

She let out a soft sigh and looked me in the eyes. “You…” she trailed off before saying anything, but her face told me everything. She was upset with me for not saying anything, but some things were better off unsaid, not shared, at the back of your mental closet.

“I just had a rough day,” I said. Which was true, but a much more simplified and minimized version of the truth the politicians like to say. “I’ll go to sleep, drink some coffee, and get over it.”

She didn’t press the issue, but she didn’t say anything. She just continued her stare, hands grasping mine like a child does his mother’s -or vice versa- and stared at my eyes as if she’ll burn a hole through my eye into my brain. It was the kind of stare that you only see a couple dozen time in your lifetime, the kind that told you everything is all right and you can tell this person everything.

I dared not break the stare, but somehow drew up the courage to talk about it. “I just got a letter from my mother,” I said. “It’s one of those judgmental mother type letter. She was not happy with my religious views, the clothes she thinks I wear, what I do for living, and everything else. She said she’s given up on me and that’s when I started being immature and started crying.” I blushed, knowing it was stupid. “She talked about disowning me, that bat.”

After I finished, I noticed that her hand wasn’t in my hands anymore. Instead, she embraced me. It was warm like a hug that mother gives to children. “It’s all right,” she said. At first, I didn’t know why she said it, but I noticed that my cheeks were warm with tears again. “I’m here. I’ll listen. I love you.”

I babbled on, caught in the moment. “My mother’s always been abusive. She was a psychologist, and you know those types. She knew just how to get into your head. She’s always been working, but those rare hours she was in the house was hell. What got me the most is,” she wiped the tears from my cheek. “She never let me tell her how I felt. I guess that’s how I grew up, keeping it inside of my head. Never feeling adequate enough about sharing. Like I’m not good enough to tell people how I feel.” I leaned against her and closed my eyes. “My father’s always been absent. The little time he was home, he always pretended to understand me but tried to manipulate me.”

“Rough childhood,” She said. I didn’t intend for this to be a psychiatric session, but it was too late now. The dam was flooded, and I kept talking.

“Yep. I was a freak. I never correctly learned to show affection and thought kissing and hugging was everything. With an abusive mother, absent father, and not a friend in the world, I suppose my sister was the only one who tried to understand me. She was like my mom. You know what I’m saying?” She did. “Despite only being two years older than me, she was the one who cooked for me, did my laundry, help with my homework and she even beat up bullies that bullied me. I used to box. Imagine that. My first sanctioned match, neither my mom nor my dad showed up. Mom never approved of me boxing and dad was sleeping in. Only my sister showed up and watched me get beat up. After the match, she took me out to eat Chinese. She told me she was proud of me. I was eight. That was the first time I heard it.”

“Do you still talk to her?” She asked. I was bawling like a little kid lost in an amusement park. I was ruining her clothes with everything, but they just kept flowing like a broken faucet.

“No,” I said after a long while. “She was killed about a year ago. She wanted to be a psychologist like mom and fix kids like me. Instead of helping kids like me, some teenage punk killed her and ran off with her wallet.” I held onto her tighter, tired, sad, and just generally sick of life.

“It’s all right,” she said for the thousandth time. “I’ll be who she was for you.” The last thing I heard before drifting to sleep in her arms was, “I promise.”

That’s why I just sat at the table at the banquet. About the only human interaction I had was snapping at the waiter for more vodka and shooing away old friends. “Some banquet,” I told myself. “The vodka is rotten.” I thought of the last circle of Hell in inferno, where poets were forever haunted with human interaction and bad booze.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, snapping me out of my firey pre-moretem death. “Can I… Is it okay if I sat here? I’m so sorry, it’s just… I’m late and I can’t find my friends and…”

As she carried on and on, I just pulled out a chair. My reading was reaching a critical point, and the protagonist’s daughter was about to confess the deed when the high-pitched interruption intruded again. “What are you reading?”

“Mm,” I grunted, and closed the book. It was Love and Murder in Paris, an old, outdated book no canon would even lift a fingrt at. I closed it and went back to reading.

“Look at all these people,” the epitome of rudeness carried on. “I think even if they pretend to be happy, they’re lonely inside. Do you know what I’m saying? It’s like, we constantly have to cover ourselves in people.”

I closed the book, sighed, and looked at her. “I suppose, but if you’re also requiring my company, are you not being a hypocrite?”

She shook her head so strongly that I thought her head would fall. “That’s not it! I think… That everyone’s lonely. Yeah! That’s what I think.” She twiddled her thumb. “Are you lonely? Mister… uh, I didn’t catch your name.”

I handed her my business card, unsure of what I’m doing. “I might be,” I said, getting up. “The question is, are you?” I left the banquet, a bit flustered and hoping she’d see “Lunch tomorrow, you and me? I know this great Italian place. Maybe we can talk about this inherent loneliness there.”

She said as she turned to me. “Do you think all the stars in the sky are people?”

“What was that?” I asked, sleepy-eyed. I was nodding off, unaware of the ongoing conversation.

“My mom once told me that when people die, they become stars. Then, they strain for years trying to shine their light to you.” Under the starlight, I saw tears well in her eyes. “Years of work for one moment of glory.”

I looked up and saw the sky. It was clear, save for patches of cloud hiding the moon. I stared, then nodded. “I know what you mean. But,” I hugged her. “There are people here who love you. There’s at least one person who’d give years of work for a single night of intimacy with you, right here. Next to you.”

She shivered under my arms, locked in embrace. “I’m glad that I found you.”

“Yes, I know, mom. No, I’m not skipping meals. Yes, I do get enough sleep.” I twirled the phone’s cord around my index finger. So old fashioned, a corded phone connected to the wall outlet. It just reminds me that not everything that’s old suddenly becomes non-functional. I looked at the phone and thought of me getting old as well. I mean, I grew up, I graduated multiple education institutes, and now… “Yes, mom, I’m still here.” Well, now I’m being harassed by my mother. Existential moments, I suppose, is reserved for people with less intrusive parents.

It is sunny outside. The snow reflects the sunlight obnoxiously. Note to self: Shovel that snow. Really, man. It’s not like you ever get out for anything else. I swerved a question about religion out of the conversation, pretending not to hear the incessant nagging about joining a church. “I’m just busy, mom. I’m sure you understand.” I really need to be cooking, I thought. “Why did you call me?”

There was an awkward silence as mother asked the question, and an even more awkward reiteration from me. “Have I found a what?” I chuckled and spat, “Not yet. It’s not like I need to find a mate. I’m not even old enough to look like I can drink.” I politely asked about the parents, grandparents, uncle and finally cousins and hung up. I shook my head one last time and flopped on the sofa. I grabbed my acoustic, my father’s acoustic I basically stole, and started playing a tune that sounded too much like Bob Dylan and Rivers Cuomo to be taken seriously. “Wheezy Geezer,” I titled the song out loud, and chuckled. “Cheesy, I know.” I said, “but I feel like I’ll die if I stopped listening to Punk Rock.”

I spent a good hour plaguing the neighbors with my songs, most of which were written by me. When I decided I had had enough, I got up and picked up my iPod. “I’m taking a walk,” I told no one. The computer screen flashed, but that’s probably some bloke wanting to eat with me or something. “Get a job,” I told myself. “By that, I mean a career.” I turned the dial on my outdated 15-years-old iPod to Green Day. I put on my clunky headphone and walked out of the small gate that read, “Dead Poets’ House.” I saw the sign and cringed a bit. “I’m the only one,” I said. “Everyone else grew.”

The walk wasn’t bad. I saw a bird fluttering about despite the cold and felt some hope. About halfway through the walk, I excused myself into a coffee shop and picked up some coffee and a newspaper dated 5 years in the past. “United States to Annex Canada,” I said with as much flamboyancy as I could muster. “Look at where that got us.” Walking back, I realized that the counter ticked too much for me to even consider drinking the coffee. “Pity,” I said, “I can’t even find a good coffee in America.” I reached the house right around as I was concluding my joke about not finding tea in Britain and actually finding an honest man in China. I took off my big yellow coat and dusted the white snow off my shoes. Fan flew the snow away, and the door slowly opened. “It was fine,” I told the man at the door.

“Did you see anything unusual?” The man asked. He was smoking his pipe, and the smell was repugnant but also awfully sweet. “I’d like to know details.”

“Birds,” I said. “Possibly bees.” I laughed, slapping my knees. When I saw the man’s face, I got serious and answered the question in a straight manner. “Bird, singular. Abnormally big. How’s it been going, Doc?”
Doc shook his head. “Not well, I’m afraid.” He opened the door to the laboratory, and there lie a woman. “She’s, well, alive, but I don’t feel that she can awake herself.”
“Why not?”

“Long story short, it’d require tremendous amount of power, which we can’t spare.”

“Can we ever get that kind of power?”

“Do you own a power plant?”

“Point taken.” I paced restlessly around the room. “What if,” I asked, “we were to only keep the necessary bit of information?”

“Now, son. You’re asking me to compromise and I don’t appreciate that.” He injected something else to the body. “I’ll do this without a compromise.” He tapped the small framed picture. “That was your idea, remember? No compromise, not even in the face of armageddon.”

I gave him a scowl and a middle finger. “Those days are behind us now. Dead Poets are dead.” I turned to the computer. “What if there was a catalyst?”

Doctor shook his head. “Don’t work that way.” He tapped the frame again. “You’re alive, I’m alive. That makes for two of us. I’m sure that the other three are alive as well.” As he turned toward the girl, a doorbell rang. “Who is it?” Doc asked.

“This is the Family. We have a warrant and an anonymous tip that Dead Poets are in the building. Open up now or face consequences.” Sound of nearly 20 or so guns being cocked was heard over the telephone.

“Hey, lead?” Doctor whispered, “10-2-4-8-0-10-4-7-16. She won’t know anything but basics, but even credo gives way to practicality.” He reached for the door leading to upstairs. “10 minutes. Furnace isn’t hot. It sounds like the rest of humanity’s at the door.” He strapped a dust covered vest and walked out of the laboratory. “Yawp. She’s pretty, isn’t she? She’s always been pretty, I guess. You’ve always been a leg man.” He said meekly as he closed the door before I got to say goodbye.

The loading time for a person’s memory back onto their head is longer than you think. Imagine moving over 3 terrabytes of files onto a flash drive. I tuned out the commotion upstairs for the most part and packed for the outside. “Two coats,” I said, “food, ammunition,” I checked my holster for my trust 6-shooter. “Flashlight, Hard hat.” I had just opened the furnace when the download was complete. “Come here,” I yelled as the girl got up from the desk. I grabbed her hand, and we ran into the furnace, into fire.

The run was long, but Doc hasn’t lied. The furnace wasn’t lit. After you got through the initial shock of hologram, you realized that it was a tunnel to outside. As the two of us got out of the cave, I turned around one final time and shed a single, bittersweet tear. “Bastard,” I said as I lit a cigarette. “You always said you’d outlive me.” I turned back around and saw that the girl had walked past me. “Wait up!” I yelled as I ran toward her.

“Who am I?” She asked me with an uncertain look on her face. Her black hair was matted on her head from the fluid that was sustaining her. “Where is this?”

I simply smiled and said, “You and I,” I wrapped my arms around her. “Are the last of America’s 20th Century Boys and Girls.” I closed my eyes and said, “This is the best world I could give you. It’s all my fault.” I managed to bring that smile she liked back and asked, “Now that we’re the only ones in this nuclear wasteland, do you want to make out?”