Before the earthquake, I had a cup of tea. Earl Grey, extra dark, extra bitter as usual. Most of the other townsfolk had already left. They had left for relatives’ places, temporary disaster shelters and the sort, preparing for the worst. But me, I made a cup of tea. I nailed my furniture to the floor. I taped my books to the shelf, the paintings and art prints to the walls. I glued the toilet seat up. I pasted my dominoes upright on the living room rug. Then I finished the milk. Checked the provisions in the cupboard. I made sure things were secure.
And I looked out the window, behind the curtain, at the equipment and trailers parked outside. A team of geologists arrived at my door, setting up camp around the block. It’s going to happen, they said. It's going to start right under your living room, they said. It had been meaning to happen for some time now, they assured. They told me it wasn’t safe. They told me to go. I said no, unwilling to absquatulate. They shook their heads. They asked about building codes and emergency supplies, flashlights and sturdy shoes, to turn off the utilities, and good luck. And they left with radio chatter on their belts.
So I made myself some tea. I double-checked clothes hangers and other free-hanging, free-standing objects. I thought about what I will do after the earthquake.
Later, when everything crumbles and car alarms sound off and the cracks in the sidewalks widen, no longer cracks that you can skip over, but chasms that command leaping and bounding and hurdling over, I might run. I might flail my arms theatrically and scream and check on the dominoes still trembling on the living room floor in the aftershocks. I might pick up broken dishes that defied adhesives, unbend contorted metal.
But for now, I’ll sit in my chair for a while. I’ll lean back, all the way back, supporting myself on only the rear two legs. I’ll lean back almost to the point of no return. Until it teeters on its edges, balancing. Then I’ll wait for it. |
