We're about 25 minutes out of Minneapolis, at a roadside 7/11, when the sirens start. Sirens are not atypical for the midwest, usually signalling a tornado or inclement weather. But the sky is clear and the wind is still and the air is the pleasant chill of predawn early-spring, so nobody pays them any heed. The store is utterly forlorn in the way that only roadside convenience stores can be - utterly devoid of any connection to place. The store is empty, save for me, Jess, an unknown customer (he's short and balding, with a nylon fishing jacket and a face that is far too limp and weathered to be happy), and the cashier. She's about our age, with jet-black dyed hair and dramatic makeup that doesn't quite hide the bags under her eyes. She looks desperately tired, as if she's waiting for any sign, anything at all, to finally abandon her post. Jess stands close to me, brushing shoulders. We're halfway through checking out (wordless, suffused with the quiet comraderie of two people who are both extremely tired and extremely do not want to be here) when the phone alerts start, piercing, annoying things. They're staggered - first Jess's phone, then mine, then the cashiers. She flips her phone over lightning-quick, as if the sound of the alarm is drilling into her eardrums, causing unspeakable pain. We see it almost in sync - [EMERGENCY ALERT. BALLISTIC MISSILE INBOUND - ETA 15 MINUTES. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.] Time seems to crawl to a halt - my eyes meet the cashier's and it's as if we're sharing a mind, going through the same thoughts.
It must be an error, like that thing in Hawaii.
We pull up Twitter, google news, any and every source. For a second, it's normal. The regular deluge of meaningless articles, quasi-fascist opinion pieces on the crisis in the taiwan strait and on the indochinese border. Then, like a cloud of a hundred needles, it refreshes, and we see it. "US under attack- Biden confirms- Nuclear launch-"
Belief comes instantly, rapidly. The cashier drops everything, rushes off, likely to the backrooms or restroom, seeking any form of shelter. The man in the fishing jacket follows her, quickly, almost smoothly. It's as if he's expecting this. Jess, for her part, rushes outside, and I'm alone in the store. It's quiet, almost normal. The clattering of awful fan bearings and the whoosh of unneeded ventilation. I stand there for a second and then follow Jess. She's sitting on the hood of our car, staring at the city. We can still see the skyscrapers rising over the horizon, obscured partially by the early-dawn fog. The sunrise glints off the buildings like a hundred glass shards. I sit next to her, and the thin steel of the hood buckles. She scoots closer, leans her shoulder and head on me. She digs into my collarbone, but I don't mention it. She clears her throat, roughly, then speaks lowly, quietly, almost a whisper.
"I figure if we're gonna die, we're gonna die regardless of if we're in the building or not. And besides, I've always wanted to see a nuclear explosion." She grabs the high-SPF sunscreen out from her bag, begins slathering it across my face. "For the flash." She winks. I chuckle quietly, and it disturbs her application, streaks white sunscreen across my lips. It's bitter and sweet, aggressive like an axe in wood, and she laughs as I try and spit it out. "And how about you?" She tilts her head quizzically.
"Mmh?"
"Why aren't you sheltering?"
"Something similar." It's a lie, and she seems to know it, but is content to remain silent. A second later, the existential dread sweeps across my brain and I decide to say it. "Because if I have to die, I'd rather it be next to you."
"Just friends, still?" She chuckles lightly, and we stay silent for a second. The air is a comfortable chill and the sky is streaked with the orange-and-purple clouds of spring dawn. Behind the clouds, a hundred new contrails - and behind them, the streaks of a hundred meteors. I know they're MIRVs, and I know what's happening, but it's far easier to pretend. Jess squeezes my hand tightly.
"You know - " I say, my tone light, carefully calculated to carry only a hint of bitterness - "if we survive, we can still go on our road trip, take our vacation."
"I hear the Boundary Waters are shockingly empty of nuclear fallout."
The meteors are lower in the sky, now, arcing across the horizon and under the clouds like the claw-marks of a giant cat.
"Y'know, Vic, there's something I've always wanted to do." She says it casually, as if it's nothing, but her hands are trembling, even more so than they were earlier.
"And what's that?"
Then she grabs my face and turns it to face her. She hooks her hand behind my neck and presses her lips against mine, harshly at first. Her lips are rough and dry, and the kiss tastes of bitter sunscreen, the aftertaste of candy, and oddly sweet saliva. I lean into it, and the harshness dissipates, replaced by a sort of gentle aggression, like the aftertaste of sour candy or the numb pressure of surgery under local anesthetic. After a second, we pull apart. Her whole body is shaking, and I want to embrace her, comfort her, but the geometry of a car windshield leaves much to be desired.
"I'm sorry - " She begins to apologize.
"Don't you dare." She leans on me again, and this time I lean into her, and it's like we merge into one organism with two arms, two heads, and four legs. The meteors are lower in the sky, now, and Jess grabs a pair of sunglasses from her purse. They're cheap and awful, glossy plastic frames and tinted plexi lenses, but they're better than nothing. The world is darker, not in an elegant way but an even one, as if someone had placed a black square over the image and turned down the opacity.
Then - a brilliant flash, a second sun, actually brighter than the low morning sun peeking through the trees. It's a blinding white sphere that appears suddenly where the skyscrapers were, and its almost as if they're still there, just obscured. It expands outwards slowly like an inflating balloon. Gradually, the white fades, and it turns into a twisting, churning gyre of light and fire, colors swirling into each other and mixing like a batch of candy suddenly tinted or blood in a pool of water. Then a front of fog, rushing at us, a roar like a hundred jet engines taking off at once. Should've brought earmuffs. My ears pop and the pressure is so intense I'm worried my eardrums will cave in, but then it relents. Jess curls into me closer, never taking her eyes off the horizon. The glass of the convenience store shatters, as do the windshields of the other cars in the parking lot. Ours is spared by our bodies acting as a shield. Then even the light fades, and the churning of the light turns into the churning of smoke, and it curls and rises upwards like a colossal cauliflower. I notice the wind is blowing mildly south, and am slightly grateful. Then, it's quiet, save for the trill of car alarms, and the air is empty, still the chill of predawn spring but slightly warmer. I turn back to Jess and see she's sunburnt, likely just like me. It's not bad by any means, it would've been a lot worse without the sunscreen, but it is quite funny, as if we've just wandered off the beach.
"We're ... we're okay." She's breathless, as if she can scarcely believe it. We curl into each other even tighter, and I half hope that our skin begins to merge and we join into one like two droplets of water succumbing to surface tension. Then, she hops off the hood and strides towards the 7/11, and returns a second later with an armful of food and snacks that she'd grabbed off the shelf. "Well, what are you waiting for?" She extends her hand
I chuckle and take her hand, letting her lead me back to the ruin of the convenience store.
retrospective: https://cohost.org/trainsfemme/post/3574517-on-gender-and-the-ap
