“The Last Day”
a short story
Gary Baker, October 2013
Recognition dawning, secrets climbing, fruit upon the vines declaring the day well-spent.
Breakfast harbors lingering wishes, strips of bacon cringing while they roil about in bed, hissing for another five minutes.
The T.V. doesn't work, so no news explains the current of humanity, but then again nothing else does either lately, not this close.
She looks over, anticipation in her eyes, tears of wonder glittering like raindrops, possibly the last he’ll ever see.
“You ready?” she chimes, her voice a harmonious melody of unexplored beauty.
“Yeah,” the jaw answers without the mentality to force it down, a hard lump caught in the place just above the thyroid, “ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”