The apocalypse is coming on Saturday and I’m in the supermarket and I’m thinking about the apocalypse coming on Saturday. The barber just told me it was coming, so here I am, with a shave I didn’t need and a list of ten items on a lined A4 sheet. My list reads as follows:
- - Washing powder. Well, I’m not going to be doing much washing after Friday and I’ve got enough clean pairs of underwear to last me until Saturday
- - Pasta. I’ve had my fair share over these 24 years and I never use a full packet. I’ll replace them with two-minute noodles. If there’s not long left then I need to be economical with my time
- - Toilet Paper. It’s not my turn, but my housemates are lazy. Fuck buying a big clumsy roll and walking down Errol St like a dildo who doesn’t know the apocalypse is coming; or worse, like a dildo who is shitting his pants that it’s coming. So I buy a four roll pack and hope my flat mates don’t take a roll each to masturbate with, not knowing of their imminent deaths
- - Milk. Despite the fact there’s only 36 hours to live, I want to drink at least three Milo. So I buy the plush glass-bottle style milk and can already see myself throwing it at a passerby on Saturday morning. Trying desperately to do some damage to them. I’ve never given anyone a hemorrhage and now seems the most appropriate time
- - Cereal. Fuck it
- - Tampons (for Stef, my female flat mate). Let her bleed. I’m sure she’s got a couple under her bed somewhere to tide her over
- - Toothpaste. Who am I kidding? I don’t care if she hates my breath, if anyone does complain they’ll be sucking the vile dick of Satan in 48 hours anyhow
- - Tuna. Someone snuck that on my list. Not my handwriting. Fuck them.
I scrap tea, soda water, rubber gloves and batteries. Instead I buy a two-part Milky Way, a slab of Coopers and a bottle of whiskey. May as well go out drunk and satisfied.
With the slab on my shoulder and one lonely plastic bag clapping into my knee, I walk home. I walk home and I’m thinking about her and if she knows that the apocalypse is coming. If maybe she’ll have a change of heart and call me on the way home. Tell me, in her beautiful, linear way, that she loves me, even though she doesn’t really know me. That I can borrow her jumper for the apocalypse and that she doesn’t mind if I sweat in it. That we should put together a picnic and sit in Flagstaff Gardens and watch as the world collapses around us. Uncharacteristically smoking a joint and staring into each other’s faces. We wouldn’t bother kissing, we’d just straight up make love. With everyone watching. Parents on their mobiles to the police, covering the eyes of their children, hurrying along their defecating dogs. Watching, disgusted, but incapable of averting their eyes. As two people make love on a blanket, next to a half empty jar of hummus and ten empty stubbies of Coopers. The only two people in the Gardens who know that the apocalypse is coming and that they need to make the most of it. After all, we’re not complete strangers. We know each other’s middle names. I hope she calls tonight.
