Another Tomorrow

"Got another bill, huh?"

"Try two."

She walks over from her spot by the window, the light leaving a red spot on her neck. She has similar spots on her face and arms from times she stepped outside for a spot of oxygen. I tell her that stuff will kill her, but she doesn't listen to me. Never has, really.

She hands me the piece of plastic, a flat slab with a red box at the top that signifies a received message.

"$500,000?? For just a month of water?"

"Water's getting rare, honey. What can I say?" Her lips drew to a close; I tried not to stare.

"Remember when you could get water for less than $60 a month?"

"Well, yeah. But they haven't made a bill smaller than $1000 since 2020." She puts her hand on my shoulder, her fingertips hot, her skin dry. I look into her eyes, grey, flecks of black fringing the iris.

"Darling, I worry, but you still need to take a shower. Bills will come regardless."

"But I hate to see you worry so." Her voice was dry. Her movements were slow.

I turned from my work, from the keyboard I'd bought off eBay just a week ago, and took her in, like a glass of champagne.

I met her after college. She had blue eyes then, and they always trapped me; I decided instead of escaping, I'd just marry her. And then, ya know, the war, the Drop, all those things that seem to come between you and 'happily ever after.' But that's okay, you know? I can always escape to my writing; it's a good exercise to write about life back when things made sense, back in a time foreign to me now, somewhere around the year 2017.

The second bill I opened was for $432000, for my cellphone data.

"Trump!"

"What is it?" my darling replied.

"We forgot to pay the phone off last week."

She sighed, walked over, her feet light, her breathing hard, leant and kissed my head. "It's not worth cussing over. Everything will be just..."

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