Slow Burn

“Hope all you boys and girls are buckled in because it’s time for Fat Steve and DJ S-s-smooth Butter’s Highway to Hell! Coming at you from the only radio station that cares—105.7 The Wheel Of Fortune.”

The radio blares for a moment before Cindy turns down the volume. Josh stands in the kitchen, fiddling with his phone.

“Pancakes?” she says, breaking the tension filling the one-room apartment.

“I hate pancakes—they make me sick,” he says.

“Okay,” she says, “how about waffles?”

“Same principle,” he says. “Syrup over a cakey, batter-disk. Not my thing.”

“French toa—”

“No,” he says.

“Well,” she says, “what do you want?”

“I think I’m just going to grab a coffee on my way home—I’m calling a ride right now.”

“Who would be working today?” she says.

“Oh,” he says, “I guess you’re right. Looks like I’m walking.”

“Damn,” she says.

“What’s up?”

“I didn’t expect you to want to leave so badly,” she says.

“Oh,” he says, “it’s not like that. I just have a lot to do today. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth, either.”

“Why’s that?” she says, pouring water into the coffee maker.

Josh pulls out a chair and takes a seat.

“When I stopped smoking weed, I lost my taste for it,” he says.

“Why’d you stop?” she says.

“Is this what we’re doing now?” he says. “Playing twenty questions?”

“I’m just making conversation while the coffee brews,” she says, leaning on the counter. “We can sit in silence if you want.”

Josh sits silently, considering his options.

“I guess I just grew up,” he says. “It’s not who I am anymore.”

“Boo,” she says, “bad answer—too vague—try again.”

“Okay,” he says, “you got me. I used to smoke with my ex a lot. She got me into it. When we broke up, it just reminded me of her too much.”

“That’s sad.”

“Why?”

“You shouldn’t let someone else run your life,” she says.

“I mean, there are worse things than quitting weed,” he says.

“I just mean in general,” she says. “You shouldn’t let the thought of someone else dictate what you do or don’t do. I’m not saying I disagree with your choices—just that you should figure out why you feel that way.”

Cindy rummages through her kitchen drawer, triumphantly yielding a half-smoked joint.

“Oh, I see how it is,” says Josh. “I shouldn’t let other people sway my decisions—just you, right?”

“I didn’t say you had to,” she says, holding in smoke. “I just want you to explore your options.”

Cindy coughs while she exhales.

“Come on,” she says, in a scratchy voice. “Just one last time. You may not get another opportunity.”

Josh takes the joint.

“That's called peer-pressure,” he says, before taking a hit.

Cindy pours two mugs of coffee and has a seat at the table.

“So,” she says, “what is it you have to do today?”

“I thought about seeing my family, but I just don’t think it’s worth it,” he says. “Half of them are off having skydiving orgies or motorcycle-jousting. I don’t know. I had fun last night. I think I just wanted to be alone—maybe play Super Mario one more time. What about you?”

“I had the same ideas,” she says. “See the family, go somewhere beautiful, do something insane and different, or just do something comforting. I’m not much of a planner, though.”

“Clearly,” he says, laughing. “It’s like noon right now. There’s no way you’d have time for even half that list.”

“I just felt like—I don’t know—it’s a weird position we’re in,” she says. “Everyone is out trying to squeeze in a few more life-changing experiences before it’s over. I just wonder if doing a bunch of bucket-list stuff would really make me happy by the end. I don’t want to burn up thinking I spent my last moments being someone I’m not.”

“You’re right about that,” he says. “Anyone can talk all day; it’s our actions that define us. I guess that’s what you were saying earlier—about doing things for your own reasons.”

“Yeah,” she says, staring into her coffee. “I think people naturally do what they really want, whether or not they know it.”

“How do you mean?”

“I just mean—I don’t plan. I felt like going out last night and I did. Now I’m here, with you, as a result. I think this is what I wanted to do, but I didn’t really think about it before.”

“That’s a good way to live,” he says. “Go-with-the-flow, whatever happens, happens.”

“Bullshit,” she says. “I’m a mess. I’m lucky the world’s ending. I have so much debt—I may even have a warrant out for unpaid tickets, now that I think about it—I can’t handle any responsibility, I can’t—”

“Yeah,” he says, “but I might’ve spent my last day doing something I hated because I thought too hard about it. I didn’t want to drive three-and-a-half hours just to spend the last few with my family because I feel like I owe it to them. I just didn’t want to be alone. It doesn’t seem so bad now.”

“Still don’t want to be alone?” she says.

“What do you want?” he says.

“I know it doesn’t mean much—there aren’t many options at this point—but I just want someone to hold. An emotional parachute. Someone to remind me that love exists, even if it’s fleeting. At least I can die feeling wanted.”

Cindy and Josh embrace, burying their faces in each other. They cry together, for the lives they’ll lose and for the company they found. They laugh about how they imagine themselves as old people while the temperature steadily rises. Separated from the chaos outside, they strip down to stave off the heat stroke for a few more moments. Cindy begins to cry again.

“Hey,” says Josh, wiping away the tears with his hand. “C’mon, don’t be sad right now. It’s not worth it.”