the end

I woke up at five am this morning, and it was sunny and beautiful and bright. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling for a while before getting up and going to take a shower--not because I had to go anywhere. It was a bright, free day, and tomorrow, the world is going to end.

I took a hot shower and sang like I always did. It was seven by the time I got out of the house, wearing my best suit and tie, walking down the streets like a cheerful ghost. I stopped in to order breakfast at the local diner. The omelets are some of the best I've ever had. Then I took a book--a whodunit I'd never be able to finish today--and wandered over to the park to read. By noon the people were out in force, walking around, smiling, cheerful, enjoying the spring breeze and the sun and the warm, almost as if the world doesn't end tomorrow.

I always used to worry about the end. I'd have to call my family, my old friends and lovers, tell them how much they mean to me. But there's so little time left and now all I can think of is how beautiful everything is. As I ate a salad over lunch I watched a couple arguing, quietly so as not to make a scene. She was tense, terse, glaring pointedly. He was avoiding her gaze, sullen, muttering darkly. So close to the end we're still worried about the little things, the unintentional insults, the stupid symbolic gestures. He would go on to tell his friend the story, leaving out the details that make him sound petty or in the wrong, knowing that he's lying to himself--doing it anyway.

I'm in a little coffee shop now. I don't know when the world ends, exactly. It could be midnight, it could be some other time. But it will all be over--and, more importantly, it will all be quiet.