Bad Glass

“I thought …” she said, trailing off for a long moment. “I thought I heard …” And then nothing. Just more confusion on her face.

She stepped into the room and started toward the window, trailing her hand along the back of the empty chairs.

I turned and noticed graffiti on the wall, just inside the door:

        I was here

all alone.

The Poet. Her words, skewed diagonally across the wall. I couldn’t tell if it was one thought or two unrelated statements. For some reason, it didn’t seem right here, her words. The sentiment seemed unutterably depressing, and I wanted to erase it. I looked around for something to gouge it from the wall, but there was nothing. Just an empty boardroom.

Taylor was standing at the window now. Her hands were raised up at her sides, pressed flat against the glass. She was resting her head there, her forehead pressed against its surface. As I watched, her shoulders dropped, and her entire frame suddenly slumped down.

It was a pose of pure exhaustion. Sudden surrender, spelled out in a single moment.

Without thought, I lifted the camera to my eye and took a picture.

I was a hypocrite. And I knew it. No matter what I told myself, no matter how many times I tried to give it up, the instinct would always be there—the instinct to raise the camera and take the shot.

“There’s nothing out there,” Taylor said, still facing the city on the other side of the window. “I can’t see a thing.”

She was silent for a time. I took another picture of her back, her slumped shoulders.

“Nothing,” she repeated, “and there’s nothing in here. Just red destruction every way we look. And it’ll be the same, eventually, outside the city. There’s no running from this. No escape.” She paused. “How do I know that?” she asked, sounding genuinely confused.

Then she turned and started toward me. Through the camera’s viewfinder, she looked tiny, impossibly far away. I took one more picture and lowered the camera to my chest.

And she kept coming.

“Hold me, Dean,” she said. She stepped right up against my body, lowering her head against my shoulder.

Surprised, I closed my arms around her back. She moved even closer, as close to me as she could get, with the camera still between us. I stepped away for a moment and spun the Canon around my neck, so that it was resting against my back and there was nothing at all separating our bodies. And I pulled her tight. I could feel her shivering against me, and she grasped me even harder, seeking comfort, seeking warmth. Seeking me.

She tilted her head back, offering me her lips.

And I kissed her.

This was the closest we ever got—this moment—our lips locked, our bodies pressed together—or no, no, it wasn’t. And for a time everything was right. I forgot about the city. I forgot about Weasel and Sabine and Amanda and Mac and Danny and Charlie and Floyd. I forgot about the world crumbling down around us, the slowing speed of light, the mushrooms and the spores—everything. It was just the two of us. And nothing else existed. We formed our own universe, and here, in our universe, everything made sense.

Then she tried to pull back.

And she couldn’t.

She made a sound deep in her throat, and I felt pressure pulling my lips away from my teeth. And then she was closer, getting closer. Pressure against my chin, then she was pulling back again; I could feel it in the bones of my jaw. Her hands pulled away from my back, and she gripped my shoulders, her fingers digging in, hard, scared. And this time she didn’t pull away. I opened my eyes and stared deep into hers.

They were wide with terror.

I lifted my hands to the sides of our kiss. The flesh there was joined, merged together. Our lips were gone. My stubbled cheeks ended flush against her smooth flesh. And her eyes were close to mine, getting closer. I grabbed her hips and tried to push her away, but we didn’t part. There was pressure against my jaw. And now my nose, next to hers, against—then inside—her cheekbone. I tried to move my hands up, but they stayed at her hips, through her clothes. And then she was closer. And I couldn’t see. My eyes. Her eyes.

And then even closer.

I had an itch behind my eyes, inside my brain. And then a taste, but I couldn’t move my tongue. Copper wool and blood.

And then

Taylor. Breast, chest, and I was … I was … Taylor’s fear, pushing back, shivering, claustrophobic, pulling back. Taylor’s fear. Mine. God, pulling back, please, please, God, where, my, please, please, my, Taylor, my head …

And then down to the floor.

And my head.

And the floor

And the city

And me

And Taylor

Together. And together. And together.

There was darkness.

And then we were back.

We woke up in Riverfront Park, on the side of a hill, above the mouth of the wolves’ tunnel. It was a bright morning out—chilly, but the whole world was bathed in golden sunlight. The grass around us sparkled. My face was damp with dew.