He glanced up at me then went back to his bag. “I don’t think there are many people left. If there are, they’ve moved on.”
Made sense. I remembered a statistic on the problem the Social Security Administration faced concerning the country’s population. A smile crept up. There was a problem solved overnight. “The SSA reported something like sixty percent of the U.S. was between ages eighteen and sixty-four. Would that be comparable to the age group that survived this thing?”
He nodded, interest glinting his eyes. “Cut that in half to eliminate women and we’re down to thirty percent.”
“But a lot of men in that age group died, with all the mutant attacks, crime, accidents, other illnesses. At best, I’d say only fifteen percent of the human race is alive today.” It was probably closer to ten percent. And without the ability to reproduce, that number would dwindle.
He stood, hands behind his back. “You’re such a nerd.”
Well, I was a numbers junkie by profession and currently on disability leave from my big bank job. My employer had called it mental stress. I lost my kids. Mental stress seemed an inaccurate description. Didn’t matter. All world markets crashed a week later.
He curled up the corner of his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”
My eyebrows rose.
He dangled a clear bag in front of me. It unrolled and three joints settled to the bottom. “Wanna fly Mexican airlines?”
I wrapped my arms around his neck and whispered against his mouth, “Mr. Delina. You shouldn’t have.”
“Mmm…I figured we both could use a little escape.”
He pulled me against him. Kissed along my jaw. Paused at my ear and wet his lips. His voice rumbled from deep within his chest. “Here’s how this is going to go down. We’re going to light up the ganja in the sun room. Then you’re going to ride me before we hit the second spliff. And when we are good and ripped, I’m going to bend you over the side of the bed and take you from behind until you scream for me.”
Just like him to tell me how it was going to be. He knew what that did to me. A forgotten sensation resurrected in my womb. I squeezed my thighs together and grabbed a six pack of beer from the counter. “Why are we still talking?”
In the sun room, we reclined on the couch. He exhaled and passed the bud.
I twisted the joint back and forth between my finger and thumb. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”
“You know that punk kid who always parked his beater on the street at the bottom of the hill?” He tilted his head toward the street. “Beater’s glove box.”
He brushed a stray hair from my face. “It’s a damn fine thing to see some of your vices back.”
I squashed the roach in the ashtray and wrinkled my nose at him. “Are we talking about the nicotine addiction or the sex addiction?”
“You know damn well it was the pack-a-day I didn’t like.”
I straddled his waist and planted my hands on the back of the couch on either side of his head.
His mouth caught mine and his arousal nudged my belly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you today.”
I ran my thumb across his lips. “I know.”
“You used to stand up for yourself when I lost my temper like that.”
I shrugged. “I know.” I didn’t blame him for losing it. He carried enough guilt leaving me alone, each time outlining do’s and don’ts. I disobeyed him and paid for it.
His fingers pressed into my waist. His hips ground against mine. “I guess I’ll sleep better when all your vices are back. Though, I think I can wait for your temper to return.”
“Then let’s just focus on one nasty habit at a time, shall we?” I twisted his nipples. His back arched.
He ripped off my nightshirt and followed through on his promises. I screamed for him several times and rediscovered the part of me I’d buried. Did it mean I was moving forward? Had I finally conquered myself, my grief? Where were the tears? Maybe they’d never come.
After, we held each other and lapped up the afterglow of sex, smoke and tender memories of the very good life we once shared. We kept our conversations light, aware of the pressing decisions we faced and danger that awaited us outside.
And neither of us gave voice to the question that hovered between us, the one that screamed to be answered. Why had I survived?
April is the cruellest month.
T. S. Eliot
Scissors in hand, I stared at my reflection over the vanity, at the long hair Joel favored. I sectioned out a chunk and whacked off ten inches. The tresses hit the floor. No retreat. Much like the devastation of humanity.
Looking back, we should’ve seen it coming. Escalating religious unrest. Ethnic conflict. Political struggle. We should’ve known. It was happening globally in every city, every country.