“Apocalypse, my ass.”
That was Levi’s take on the overall situation last night at dinner.
“A bunch of people died. That was a bummer. It was the end for them, sure enough,” he says. “But what about us? Do we look the slightest bit apocalypted to you?”
Mason seemed his usual imperturbable self. Eve appeared a little puffy, but not like someone wrecked. Their daughters, Lark and Chloe, looked last night just as they’ve seemed to me all along—completely fine. The girls act as if the life we’re in is ordinary. When we try to tell them how bizarre our post-Apocalyptic circumstances are, it’s like telling them how we suffered when we had nothing but phones and fax machines: they have no idea what we’re talking about and not much interest.
Levi is on top of the world lately. As Mayor, he’s had some luck with improving policing. Crime is down, at least a little. Water supply remains constant and secure. Electrical outages are rarer because one of the old nuclear reactors is up and running again. He sat at the head our table, clearly feeling his mayoral oats.
He beamed, while the rest of us looked around the table, our smiles a little cautious, as we examined one another for signs of post-traumatic stress or injury.
“Maybe we do, a little,” Eve said.
She was looking at me.
Jill Riddell is a writer in Chicago. She teaches at the School of the Art Institute and has a weakness for nature, magic, and pennies abandoned in sidewalk cracks.