His apartment is high and made of glass. He looks over the pinpricks, the massive cluster of skyscrapers. All is quiet inside. All is chaos outside. Black smoke rises. Spots of flickering orange mark the fires. There are swarms of people crushing forth toward the barricades. The questionable neighborhoods are cut off from the rest of the city. The downtrodden are caught in a net, reeled in, and then locked in steel boxes.
He sighs deeply and has to turn away.
How am I supposed to live in a world like this? he thinks. And what’s the point? Where is the joy? Where is the love?
He goes to the couch and powers up his gaming system.
“At least I can escape to wondrous lands,” he thinks aloud. “And kill without rhetoric and repercussions.”
In another world, an open window teases a candle flame as a cavernous mist crawls along the surface of a small lake. The writer sits down at his desk and ponders the keys. A woman calls his name from the other side of the house. He slams his fist down on the desk in frustration. “I’m on vacation!” he yells.
The woman pokes her head into the room. “Why are you so pissed off?”
“Because I’m trying to concentrate on my work and you’re disrupting my creative flow.”
“Sorry,” she meekly replies. “I just wanted to know if you wanted a pot pie for lunch.”
“Fuck pot pies!”
“Okay, okay. Geez, calm down.”
The writer puts a hand to his forehead and pinches at the stress and tension. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. But you know I have mental problems.”
“And you should know you can’t use that as an excuse every time you cross this barbaric emotional line.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He waves her off. “A pot pie would be fine, by the way. As long as it has flaky crust and creamy gravy.”
She makes her way toward the door but turns around before going out. “It will be a plate of steamy goodness, I promise,” she tells him, her face full of joy and excitement.
The man in the high apartment is killing giant spiders with a mighty sword in the game Kingdoms of Amalur: Re-Reckoning. “I don’t have to think about the sad state of the world when I’m doing this,” he says aloud to the room. “I’m killing giant spiders in Webwood on the outskirts of a gloomy village. The air is thick and smells of forest. I’m all alone and I like being alone…”
The daylight begins to fade. The city outside methodically starts to sparkle with lights of white, red, and blue. The Amorikan failure, fractured and hobbled, limps on. No one knows what any new day will bring. The people are tired and dumbfounded. This wrecking ball of governance. The man hacks at another giant spider as the world hacks into his soul, draining life and rights, stealing heartbeats, suffocating joy. The night comes on and the large television screen glows. Animated blood splashes. Green poison puffs. At least the bodies with holes still exist. He can smell them. His cell phone rings a Gregorian chant. Who could it be? he wonders. “I have no friends. And I don’t really want any.”
“How’s the pot pie?” she asks with anticipatory glee.
He chews, swallows, drinks milk, and wipes at his mouth with a white paper napkin. “It’s full of steamy goodness,” he says. “You did something right for a change.”
She looks down at her hands and thinks about what she’d love to say to him. But she’s scared. Instead she quips, “I’m glad you’re satisfied.”
He smiles at her. “Speaking of satisfaction, why don’t you crawl under the table and satisfy me.”
“Now?”
“Yes. Why not? Haven’t you always wanted to do it under a table?”
“I’ve never really thought about…”
“Here’s your chance.”
“We could go to the bedroom. I’ll submit.”
“I want you to do it under the table. Stop trying to get out of it.” He slaps his hand down on the table and the dishes jump.
She reluctantly goes beneath the table, crawls between his legs, undoes his pants, and does what he wants her to do.
The man looks at the unrecognizable number glowing on his phone. He swipes red. I don’t want to talk to anyone I don’t know, he thinks. “Probably someone wanting to scam me,” he says. “All of life is a scam… Especially love and kindness.”
He starts to think about dinner. He pauses his game. The man recalls seeing a pot pie in the freezer. “I could use some steamy goodness right about now,” he says to himself. “Hell, the whole country could use some steamy goodness right about now.”
He goes to the kitchen and opens the freezer. There the pot pie sits in the cradle of the electric arctic tundra. He thinks about how his wife used to make him pot pies, especially the time she did unspeakable things to him under the table. That life is decimated now. Nothing can survive in this state of the world he bemoans inside his head.
He retrieves the pot pie, reads the instructions on the box and goes to turn on the oven. “If I was smart,” he began aloud. “I’d just stick my head in there and burn my face off.” He waits for the oven to reach temperature and then opens the pot pie package and puts the pot pie on a metal pan and puts it in the oven. He sets the timer for 51 minutes. “Because I’m just so odd and different.”
He stands still in the silence of his apartment. The only light is in the kitchen and coming from the television. He thinks his life is sad, but bearable. And at just that moment there was a knocking at his apartment door. He freezes for a moment and then goes to the peephole and looks out. It’s his x-wife. What is she doing here? he wonders. The knocking comes again. “Albert? she says on the other side of the door in her painfully recognizable voice. “I know you’re in there. You never go anywhere.”
He opens the door. “What do you want?”
“It’s Christmas. I don’t think we should both be alone.” She holds out a wrapped gift. “Here. I got you a little something.”
“Oh, but I didn’t…”
“Of course you didn’t. It’s okay, Albert. It’s all about giving and not receiving, right?”
She sheds her coat and throws it over the back of the couch. She looks around and is saddened by the fact there is no Christmas tree. “Playing video games?”
“Yes. And I’m cooking a pot pie.”
Her face brightens. “A pot pie? Yummy.”
“We could share it if you like.”
“Well, Albert. How romantic.”
She leans in and kisses the corner of his mouth. She places a hand between his leg. “Do you want me to take care of your yule log?”
“Kathy… Please. Is that the only reason you’re here. For intercourse?”
She sighs. “No. I just didn’t want to be alone on Christmas. Can I stay the night? I’ll sleep on the couch.”
Albert looks her over. She still has the hot body, the cute face. She’s always been cute. “Yes, you can stay. But we can share my bed. It’s a king. Plenty of room to spread out. We could pretend we’re camping like we used to.”
Kathy smiles and goes to hug him. “Yes, I would love that.” They unexpectedly kiss.
He backs away. “Let’s not get too physical,” he says to her. “We aren’t ever getting back together. How could we?”
“I never said that was what I want. And for your information I don’t want to get back together, but it doesn’t mean we can’t be civilized toward each other.”
“Okay,” Albert says. “I can deal with that.”
The pot pie sits between them, and they take turns dipping forks into the creamy, steamy goodness.
“This is delicious,” Kathy says. “I just love a good pot pie.”
Albert watches her mouth as she eats. “Yes. I agree. Sometimes all one needs to make things better is a good pot pie.”
“Do you miss me?” she suddenly asks.
“Sometimes.”
“Not all the time?”
“I have a life of my own now,” Albert tells her. “I don’t always have time for memories.”
“Is that all I am, just a memory?”
“What else do you expect?”
“Everlasting love. Like we vowed.”
“What!? You’re the one who couldn’t wait to get rid of me. You took my things off the walls, brought home boxes for me to pack my stuff in, and even made me sleep in the guest room. Fuck off, Kathy.”
Albert slapped the pot pie off the table, and the steamy goodness went everywhere. “Now look what you made me do. A perfectly good pot pie is ruined.”
“You did it,” Kathy snaps. “You never could control your emotions.”
“Why don’t you get down on the floor and lick that mess up like the dog you are!”
“Albert! Don’t you dare talk to me that way. To hell with all this. I should have known better than to come over here for some Christmas cheer. You always ruin everything. You’re a horrible person, Albert. I’m leaving.”
“Good! Don’t let the door hit you where the good lord split you.”
And then there was silence and a mess on the floor. Albert went to the big windows and looked out at the city on fire with Christmas angst. The lights were all there, but Santa Claus was dead. Homeless toys wandered the streets and tried to sleep on spiked benches. The giving love seems to have evaporated. Tonight, there will be no apologies, no forgiveness. Humans have turned to stone.
Albert went back to the couch and fired up his video game once more. He launched himself into a better, older world where he could fight and live and wander, and remained there deep into the night and into forever.
CEREAL AFTER SEX 