Last Tango Before Armageddon

By Jeff Baker

Peyton was standing there, stark naked with the book covering his, well you know. He’d been reading in our bedroom. The public nudity had been a recent addition; he’d always been a little unconventional. The news had changed a lot of things. Nobody batted an eye at somebody stepping outside and grabbing the morning paper naked. Or wouldn’t if they were still printing the paper. They’d stopped this last week.

Last week. I wish that didn’t sound so final. I shivered a little. The weather had gotten unseasonably cooler for July.

“So, what’s up?” I asked.

“Not much,” he said. “Was listening to NPR. They’re saying that thing, the big meteor thing…”

“Planetoid,” I said.

“Yeah. Planetoid,” Peyton said. “The one that’s going to hit us is probably going to. You know. Arrive. Next week.”

I was trying not to think about it. A whole bunch of the big things had been zipping through the solar system. One near miss had messed with earth’s rotation and screwed-up the seasons and the weather. But if the scientists were right, it didn’t matter. We were sitting ducks.

“I’ve been, you know, sitting in there reading the same page for about two hours,” Peyton said.

“I know,” I said. “I was watching you.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well. Do you want to dance?”

“Where?” I said. “I don’t think anything’s open anymore.”

“Right here,” he said. “Now. You know, two guys. Music. Last Tango Before Armageddon.”

“Uh, sure.” I said. “Just let me…” I pushed a button on the old C.D. player. Music filled the room. We pressed close together.

“Just hold me,” Peyton said. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” I said, squeezing tight.

For the next few minutes, I wasn’t scared.

—end—