Soft Apocalypse by Will McIntosh

big marble statue of John Wesley that sat atop his tomb in the center of the square had been spray painted red and green, except for his face, which was painted black. At least I thought it was his tomb. I’d never actually read the brass plaque embedded in the concrete below the statue.
    Tombs. Now, that was something Deirdre might like.
    “Come on.” I took Deirdre’s hand and drew her down Abercorn.
    “Hmmm,” Deirdre cooed as we crossed Liberty and walked toward the locked gates of Colonial Park Cemetery.
    She ignored my attempt to boost her and scrabbled over the fence. I gripped the rough, rusty iron and climbed in after her. White headstones glowed vaguely in the tree-canopied darkness, chipped and crooked like giant teeth. Crepe myrtle, barkless and shiny, twisted toward the sky.
    Deirdre stepped over a fallen lamppost, headed toward the concrete wall that marked the far end of the cemetery. I followed, wrapped my hands around her waist when I caught up to her. She was staring up at the rows of lost tombstones, mounted along the wall.
    “What’re those doing up there?” she asked.
    “Soldiers came through here during the Civil War, pulled them out of the ground and tossed them around. The residents didn’t know which went where, so they couldn’t put them back.”
    “I don’t know why people care so much about dead bodies anyway. What’s the difference where someone is once they’re dead?”
    I slid my palms up her sides, wrapped them over her breasts. She looked back at me over her shoulders, smiling. “You want to fuck me in a graveyard?” She scanned the graveyard as I slid my hands under her shirt.
    “This way,” she said, taking my hand and leading me over a low fence enclosing two rows of concrete tombs that looked like coffins set aside to be buried later. There were eight of them in the little family plot. One of them was much smaller than the rest—suitable for a four-or five-year-old child. Deirdre chose that one.
    I strolled down York Street toward Deirdre’s condo, enjoying the cool weather, my hand in my pocket holding my pay. I loved the feel of the thickish wad of cash in my pocket. Six hundred forty dollars—not a bad week’s pay. I wouldn’t be moving into the gated district any time soon, and Deirdre probably made ten times what I did, but still, it was nice to be making enough that I could buy a newspaper if I wanted.
    I wanted to think that my improved fortunes were part of a larger economic recovery, but it was hard to tell. To me, things seemed a little better, but there were still plenty of homeless, and the stock market just kept sinking. If the government knew what the unemployment rate was, they weren’t saying, but on the news an economist had estimated it was close to sixty percent. Angling my face toward the sun, I decided I would stop fretting and be glad I wasn’t one of them. Things were going well, all things considered, and I should appreciate it. Deirdre and I were at a point in our relationship that it was assumed we’d see each other every day, and I was catching glimpses of a softer woman underneath the edgy, intense exterior.
    I paused beside a huge Sanitation Department dumpster that sat abandoned on the corner, shaded by a live oak. There were two guys staring up at Deirdre’s condo from across the street—a short old guy with the remnant of what must have been a prodigious beer gut when French fries were cheap, and a short younger guy who looked disturbingly like a gnome.
    The gnome spotted me approaching, gestured me over.
    “Feast your eyes,” he whispered.
    Deirdre was gardening on her terrace, completely naked. Her nipples brushed the dark soil as she filled in a hole, patting the earth vigorously, her immense satisfaction easy to read on her face.
    “Yeah, I’ve seen her naked before,” I said.
    The gnome looked at me, confused. “She’s done this before?”
    “No, that’s my girlfriend.”
    “Shiiit,” he said, grinning.