Soft Apocalypse by Will McIntosh Page A

“You’re lucky.”
    “I know,” I said. I got a better grip on the plastic bag that contained my photo album and headed for the door, fishing Deirdre’s key out of my pocket.
    “Honey, I’m home,” I called.
    Deirdre lifted her head, peered at me through the sliding glass door. She got up, brushed her knees and ass, opened the door. “No you’re not. Your home is on Jones Street.” She pressed up against me, gave me a tongue-first kiss.
    “You must have missed the tone I was going for. It was meant to be ironic. Well, not exactly ironic, or sarcastic exactly. But it was meant to have a tone.”
    “What the fuck are you talking about?” she said, smiling.
    “I don’t know,” I said. I headed toward the terrace. The two guys were still standing across the street. The gnome waved. I waved back. “So what are you planting?”
    “Peppers. Hot ones—all sorts. I love peppers.”
    “Ah. No tomatoes? No spinach?”
    “Nope. Just peppers. I don’t like all those other vegetables.” She curled her lip as if eating vegetables was comparable to licking mold off the shower curtain. “Who were you waving to?”
    “The two guys who were watching you from across the street. Nice guys. They weren’t jerking off or anything. Very polite about it.”
    “Really?” Deirdre said, moving to the glass door to see. She laughed. “They were watching me? I didn’t even notice.”
    The gnome waved again, tentatively. Deirdre waved back. We moved away from the window.
    “You coming to the concert tonight?” Deirdre asked.
    “Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.
    “Cool.” She turned on her 3-D TV, threw herself onto the couch, propped one leg on the coffee table, the other on the couch.
    “You don’t have a concert tomorrow, right? Everyone’s planning to go to the beach.”
    “Right. Who’s everyone?”
    “Colin, Jeannie, Ange, Cortez,” I ticked off. “You up for it?”
    “Sure,” she said, though she didn’t sound enthused. Deirdre didn’t seem to like hanging out with my friends, and, though she knew lots of people, she didn’t seem to have many friends of her own.
    I held up the plastic bag. “Remember when I said I’d show you my childhood photos? Want to see?”
    Deirdre took one of the albums, started flipping through the pages. I was excited about showing them to her. To me it was like catching someone up on where you’d been, who you were.
    “Do you have any?” I asked.
    She shook her head. “Nope.”
    I waited for her to elaborate, but that was evidently her answer in its entirety. “How come?”
    She sighed impatiently. “Because I don’t want to remember my god damned fucking childhood.” She closed the album. “Maybe I’ll look at these later?” She retrieved the remote, flipped through the channels.
    “Okay. No problem.” Deirdre hadn’t told me anything about her childhood; now it was clear why. I stashed my albums under the couch, adding one more item to my mental list of things I should be grateful for.
    At the concert that night tingles ran down my spine as I watched Deirdre perform her dark magic. Afterward people surrounded her, asked her to hang out.
    “Nah,” Deirdre said, pressing close to me. The sensation was exquisite. “Come on.” She splayed her fingers low for me. I laced mine between hers. Her palm was cool and soft and full of promises.
    We headed toward her apartment.
    “Razors, Deirdre! You cut to the bone,” a kid called out as we passed. It was the kid with the lamp black around his eyes. He didn’t recognize me.
    Most of Deirdre’s audience was so young. Most weren’t even old enough to remember what the parking meters lining the street were for, or what the rusty signs meant.
    No Parking this side
    Saturday 12:01 -4:00 a.m.
    Sweep Zone
    The street surely could use a good sweep.
    We climbed the steps to Deirdre’s apartment. I stood behind her, my arms wrapped around her waist, looking down on the top of her head as she unlocked the door.
    “Want to