She touches the outside of my arm, between elbow and wrist. For some reason, It reminds me of the Worcester art museum. (Worcester was a city–is a city–in Massachusetts about twenty miles from where I grew up.) I went there once when I was six.
“No you’re not.”
“I am. What?”
She moves her hand. “What do you mean, what?”
I roll over. “Nothing, I mean, what’s up?”
“I had a bad dream.”
I try to open my eyes, one is stuck closed with wine, the other, vodka. My head hurts. Wine is weaker. I peer out at her.
“It was the end of the world!” she tells me, serious.
I get the other eye open. “Oh? Zombie end of the world or Nuclear end of the world?”
“Neither. I was just in my apartment, waiting to die. And, well, I knew the world would end in ten minutes. Then I would die. Everyone would die.”
“Did everyone die, then?”
She shakes her head. “No. Of course not.”
“No, that would be too easy. I just waited.”
“For ten minutes?”
I put my arm around her, close my eyes. She throws it off. I can’t shrug, so I roll over instead. She slides down close, next to me. She puts her arm on the outside of my arm.
“It was horrible,” she whispers, sleepy.
I try to nod, but I’m already asleep; walking through the Worcester art museum, waiting for the end of the world.