- Each year, the oceans rise approximately .14 inches, says the scientist through the small, dented radio above Molly’s kitchen sink. Also rising, the core temperature of the earth, at double its usual rate. Molly closes her eyes, turns off the water, dries the soap from her hands. In a quick and furious gesture, she drops to the floor, her palms planted firmly into the ground beneath her shoulders, her legs strong in plank position behind her. She jumps up and then back down again, feeling pinpricks of warmth spread through her body as she moves through a spontaneous burst of burpees, the dishes still sitting in her sink rattling above. Molly’s muscles have become worn to this movement, thanks to a recent membership at the gym a few blocks down which she now frequents at least four times each week. When the end of the world comes, Molly can only assume that she will benefit from physical endurance, stamina, a well-tuned cardiovascular system. If these things continue, and make no mistake—says the voice above her—the way things are going, they most certainly will, well… Molly can hear the panic tucked neatly under his tongue as she feels the blood pumping strong and fast through her body. She knows that catastrophe is inevitable, a tragedy so woven into the fabric of humanity that it has become a part of the scenery. Standing still now, she turns to face the radio, placing her hands on her chest to feel each beat of her heart rise to meet her palms, wills the gesture to move gently through air and sound and light toward the scientist as a symbol of solidarity or, at the very least, quiet understanding. Next, says a new voice, the radio host, you may have already gotten your flu shot for the season but doctors are warning about a new ailment taking hold this winter. A recent study published last month shows that loneliness can be as contagious as the common cold. But first, the weather.
- Molly knows from the shape of the package sitting in her doorway that the beads have arrived. A few nights earlier, the dark sky of late winter seemingly endless before her, she had decided to make use of her hands which seemed to itch with the need to touch or make or do. She had considered baking bread, imagining her wrists flexing through each elastic punch and pull, her hands flour pale and strong. Her mother had tried to teach her, years ago, but it had been a bit of a disaster and, being fairly useless in the kitchen anyway, Molly assumed it wasn’t worth the effort nor expense. So instead, she had decided to make jewelry, spending hours examining images of Tiger’s Eye and Moonstone, researching patterns, comparing string and wire. Molly is pleased with the weight of the package as she sets it on her kitchen table, thrilled further with the shine and colors of the stones inside. Beauty, she knows, is currency. And currency is survival.
- The virgin deck is stiff in her hands, each waxed card making a loud slap when shuffled against its neighbor. It is the time of day when her apartment is most quiet, save for the soft buzz of her refrigerator or phantom flush of a neighbor’s toilet, and she savors the sound of the cards vibrating between her walls. She lays seven careful rows, the tableau sharp against the sunspots retreating from the kitchen tile, back toward the fading afternoon. Molly can’t remember the last time she played solitaire, an activity she always associates with her father’s back, his cardigan pilled and threaded—a lonely game for lonely children. The remaining cards soften from the warmth of her palms as she begins: red queen of diamond on black king of spades, black jack of clubs on top of queen and look! An ace for the bank. Cars hum below, a pedestrian kind of music, and Molly wonders what sounds the world will make when it ends, or rather, stops catering to the small beings more loyal to coffee cups and credit cards than the air filtering through the trees, their lungs. In the apartment below, Molly hears the careful, slow pluck of piano scales. Game over, she shuffles and lays out the cards, begins again.
