The first tremor is barely felt. Could be a truck passing by in the narrow street below. But I ask if you felt that, and you say, “Felt what?”
The dog stretches her long legs, panting in her sleep. She’s more yours than mine. Five years ago, you brought a box home and she was in it—the rest of the litter were all males. But lately, I cuddle her more than you.
It’s been weeks since we separated, but we can’t move out until we find a new tenant. Neither of us can afford the rent alone.
I tell you something’s wrong with the dog, and you say I’m projecting.
We’re on the couch, watching a movie. I pause and tell you I had a bad dream.
“Oh yeah?” You keep your eyes on the screen; a frozen close-up of a superhero losing the only thing he ever cared for, Earth or something. Face contorted with agony. We, the viewers, know that this planet is not really dead—it will survive the ball of fire, its core splitting in two, the invasion of misunderstood aliens, the pandemic that turns humans into insatiable zombies.
“Yes,” I say. “I had a bad dream about you.”
“What was it?”
“We were at the beach and there was a big orgy with old swingers.”
“Oh, that sounds nice,” you say with a grin.
“Yeah, but you wanted to join them and I didn’t, so you said: why do you always have to be so boring?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ve had worse. It wasn’t a bad dream, per sé. Not a nightmare.”
You touch my shoulder. “But it was stressful, right? That’s what nightmares are when you’re an adult—stressful.”
Out of habit, I lean into your familiar body—it’s only your face that I can’t recognize. I hear your stomach singing digestive songs. You hit Play, where the superhero is still contorting.
The second quake, two hours later, lasts minutes. Jolting through the house like a myoclonic jerk. We run—you from the couch with the sleepy dog, me from the terrace with the Kellogg’s mug that reads: Send Them Back Happy. My favorite. We stand under the bedroom doorframe, the only solid spot. Piles of divided books scatter on the floor. But nothing breaks until you hold my hand. Then, under the fear, a calm thought emerges: this planet is really dead.
Noa Sivan Ashkenazy was born and raised in Israel and has been living in Spain for the past 13 years. She is a mature student pursuing an undergraduate degree in Library and Information Science.
Photo by Anastasia R. on Unsplash