Three Hours
It wasn’t all over the news, but she knew it in her heart anyway: the world would end in three hours. The radio was blaring static-saturated jazz, she could hear water rushing through the pipes in the thin walls to her neighbor’s apartment. Her fridge began again to buzz loudly, as it did every so often. She’d never bothered to figure out the exact time interval, but now the idea of never knowing terrified her. She scrambled to her phone, and started a stopwatch.
She cleaned her apartment, pausing only to mark the time and restart the stopwatch when the fridge stopped groaning after twenty minutes.
She had wondered what her grandparent’s house had been like when her parents were children. Through her childhood, it had stayed perfectly preserved, the details that shifted between each visit far too subtle for her to notice. In contrast, her parents seemed to move bi-weekly, and even if the location seemed the same, all the contents seemed to shift. She considered calling them to ask, but when she finally decided to try the call didn’t go through.
Her apartment was cleaner than it had ever been before, nearly unrecognizable now that all the surfaces were clean and unobscured, all her trash cans overflowing with papers. She left one pile of papers on her desk, slipped in a watertight folder, protected as perfectly as it could be for future archeologists. The fridge cycled over again, and she noted the time, before venturing into her room. An hour had passed.
She was already dressed for the day, but she picked through her wardrobe, pulling out her favorite shirt and pants. She had washed them a week ago, and had been waiting to wear them on her birthday, but she slipped them on today instead. The pants were a horrible red and gray plaid pattern, and the sweater was a jarring, contrasting, dark pink, but they were comfortable, and that was all that mattered. The fridge cycled again. She glanced down at her phone. It had only been fifteen minutes this time.
She slipped the water-tight folder into her bag, and walked out the door, still in her slippers. What did it matter, at this point.
In the folder was her driver’s license, birth certificate, highschool diploma, credit card. A drawing, made when she was three, that was once displayed in her father’s office, a point of pride that faced any visitors who stood before his desk. A single page, double sided, with tiny 2 inch by 1 inch copies of each work in her portfolio. A letter to her mother, written two months ago, and discarded under the couch. The takeout menu for her favorite pizza place, down the street. A photo of her apartment, taken before she began cleaning, printed on cheap, thin, paper, the ink so thick the paper was sagging under its own weight. Her notes on the timing of the fridge.
An hour and a half gone. She walked around the town square, glancing into storefronts. She had already packed away all her money, so she didn’t buy anything. A wave of boredom washed over her, exhausted and full of too much idle energy, all at once. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and the disgruntled crowd parted around her. Bland muzak flooded the sidewalk, as the door to the hotel she paused in front of opened.
“Do you need anything, ma’am?” the bellboy asked.
She shook her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to continue walking, so instead she sat suddenly on a nearby bench. She tried to check her watch, but found she left it at home. Goal in mind, she returned to her apartment, quickly picking up her watch, and snapping it on her wrist. She swapped shoes as she checked the time in the doorway, before locking her door behind her. Two hours had passed. She left her keys in the lock.
As she walked down the street, she passed a man who was trying to sell something. Her mother had always told her to avoid such people, simply because of the risk of getting trapped in a conversation. Or at least that’s what her mother had always said was the reason. She paused, and listened closer to the man’s ramblings. He wanted her to take a brochure for tours, attention snapping to her the second she showed a hint of attention. A flier was pressed into her hands, and as such she was tethered to the conversation. She couldn’t bring herself to mind. Fifteen minutes later, she slipped the piles of fliers into her folder, and continued on.
She didn’t want to die on an empty stomach, so she considered going to her favorite restaurant, but the line out the door dissuaded her. The theater was showing a horror film, one that first came out when she was far too young to be able to convince her parents to allow her to see it. She wasn’t sure, she didn’t know what to do with 45 minutes, such a short amount of time that she might not finish whatever she started. She could die hungry, but she didn’t want to die eating. The film would still have an hour left when the world ended, but she wouldn’t be thinking about it if she was distracted. She wouldn’t see it coming, and wouldn’t that just make the transition easier?
So she walked to the theater and got a ticket. She bought some popcorn to snack on, curled her knees up to her chest, and set her bag beside her. The trailers ended thirteen minutes later, although she didn’t know that.
She cleaned her apartment, pausing only to mark the time and restart the stopwatch when the fridge stopped groaning after twenty minutes.
She had wondered what her grandparent’s house had been like when her parents were children. Through her childhood, it had stayed perfectly preserved, the details that shifted between each visit far too subtle for her to notice. In contrast, her parents seemed to move bi-weekly, and even if the location seemed the same, all the contents seemed to shift. She considered calling them to ask, but when she finally decided to try the call didn’t go through.
Her apartment was cleaner than it had ever been before, nearly unrecognizable now that all the surfaces were clean and unobscured, all her trash cans overflowing with papers. She left one pile of papers on her desk, slipped in a watertight folder, protected as perfectly as it could be for future archeologists. The fridge cycled over again, and she noted the time, before venturing into her room. An hour had passed.
She was already dressed for the day, but she picked through her wardrobe, pulling out her favorite shirt and pants. She had washed them a week ago, and had been waiting to wear them on her birthday, but she slipped them on today instead. The pants were a horrible red and gray plaid pattern, and the sweater was a jarring, contrasting, dark pink, but they were comfortable, and that was all that mattered. The fridge cycled again. She glanced down at her phone. It had only been fifteen minutes this time.
She slipped the water-tight folder into her bag, and walked out the door, still in her slippers. What did it matter, at this point.
In the folder was her driver’s license, birth certificate, highschool diploma, credit card. A drawing, made when she was three, that was once displayed in her father’s office, a point of pride that faced any visitors who stood before his desk. A single page, double sided, with tiny 2 inch by 1 inch copies of each work in her portfolio. A letter to her mother, written two months ago, and discarded under the couch. The takeout menu for her favorite pizza place, down the street. A photo of her apartment, taken before she began cleaning, printed on cheap, thin, paper, the ink so thick the paper was sagging under its own weight. Her notes on the timing of the fridge.
An hour and a half gone. She walked around the town square, glancing into storefronts. She had already packed away all her money, so she didn’t buy anything. A wave of boredom washed over her, exhausted and full of too much idle energy, all at once. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, and the disgruntled crowd parted around her. Bland muzak flooded the sidewalk, as the door to the hotel she paused in front of opened.
“Do you need anything, ma’am?” the bellboy asked.
She shook her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to continue walking, so instead she sat suddenly on a nearby bench. She tried to check her watch, but found she left it at home. Goal in mind, she returned to her apartment, quickly picking up her watch, and snapping it on her wrist. She swapped shoes as she checked the time in the doorway, before locking her door behind her. Two hours had passed. She left her keys in the lock.
As she walked down the street, she passed a man who was trying to sell something. Her mother had always told her to avoid such people, simply because of the risk of getting trapped in a conversation. Or at least that’s what her mother had always said was the reason. She paused, and listened closer to the man’s ramblings. He wanted her to take a brochure for tours, attention snapping to her the second she showed a hint of attention. A flier was pressed into her hands, and as such she was tethered to the conversation. She couldn’t bring herself to mind. Fifteen minutes later, she slipped the piles of fliers into her folder, and continued on.
She didn’t want to die on an empty stomach, so she considered going to her favorite restaurant, but the line out the door dissuaded her. The theater was showing a horror film, one that first came out when she was far too young to be able to convince her parents to allow her to see it. She wasn’t sure, she didn’t know what to do with 45 minutes, such a short amount of time that she might not finish whatever she started. She could die hungry, but she didn’t want to die eating. The film would still have an hour left when the world ended, but she wouldn’t be thinking about it if she was distracted. She wouldn’t see it coming, and wouldn’t that just make the transition easier?
So she walked to the theater and got a ticket. She bought some popcorn to snack on, curled her knees up to her chest, and set her bag beside her. The trailers ended thirteen minutes later, although she didn’t know that.
Two hours later, the theater’s lights raised.
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