Anniversary of something completely insignificant

 

A plateful of fries, fish fingers, and salad were already waiting. Dinner was steaming—except for the salad, of course—and the sweet, warm aroma of food wafted through the kitchen. I went to the cupboard for cutlery. I also grabbed some ketchup from the fridge—because I can't imagine fries without ketchup. I turned the bottle upside down and held it upright above my plate. I waited for the tomato sauce to splash onto the plate. As the stubborn matter stubbornly clung to its glass shelter, I began shaking the bottle, harder and harder, finally slamming my hand against the bottom. Maybe it had frozen in the fridge, or had congealed. Either way, I wanted ketchup for my fries on my plate. And in the end, I got what I wanted—and more. After another desperate blow to the bottle's glass bottom, half of its contents ended up on my plate, drowning the fries as if in soup. The red goo sat comfortably on my dinner – on the fries and fish fingers. It even didn't disdain the salad.

I devoured the fries with ketchup, the fish fingers with ketchup, and the ketchup with salad, while Mike Patton played the piano for me. I'd always loved that song, and now it put me in a good mood. Although, on the other hand, it was mean to play "Easy on Sunday Morning" on a Thursday afternoon for a divorcee exhausted after a hard day's work. Despite everything, I liked listening to the radio. I liked it when something was playing. Anything. Even drum 'n' bass. As long as it wasn't silent. When I was home, a small radio would play somewhere in the background until late at night. I was lulled to sleep by gentle jazz, and at five in the morning, the local radio station suddenly assaulted my eardrums with a perfidious repertoire of shrill and completely inappropriate songs, headlined by U2's "It's a Beautiful Day."

I ate the last French fry with the last drop of ketchup, then got up from the table and put the dirty plate in the sink. I developed the very unmanly habit of washing up after myself immediately. I knew that if I simply left that smeared dish, it would probably stay there forever. The next day, I would put another and another on it until it piled up to the ceiling, from which, if necessary, I would take one and wash it. Or I would buy new dishes. Washing that one plate was simpler, cheaper, and actually faster.

I turned off the hot water and wiped my hands on a slightly soiled cloth. I no longer had the same rational approach to laundry as I did to dishes.

The radio gave the renowned English-language singers a break. There was a short commercial segment in which an overly laid-back guy rapped about orange juice, followed by Barry White, who, for the poor, touted a new boutique in the area. On radio, where you couldn't dazzle the audience with rainbow colors and seduce them with computer graphics, no idea was too stupid or too crazy for advertising. Nothing could surprise me anymore.

"In three days, at this time, the world will end," I heard.

It took a while for the words to sink in. The radio was muted and I was lost in thought, and the commercial, which didn't feature shouting, a saxophone, or the word "super!", didn't grab my attention at all. And when I finally understood it, it didn't strike me as anything out of the ordinary either. I think I'd heard something similar somewhere before. Nothing new. Slogans like "The world will never be the same" advertised a new digital channel, and a new mobile network was touted as a revolution on a cosmic scale. So the mere end of the world seemed like a rather poor marketing idea. Still, I was simply curious about what would be launched in three days. Maybe a fifty-inch flat-screen TV?

I glanced at the green numbers on the microwave. It was 4:23 p.m. Thursday.

I wondered why anyone would want to sell something on a Sunday afternoon. It would have been better to start on Saturday or Monday morning. Or at midnight on the first of the month.

I grabbed a beer from the fridge, which didn't need any advertising because it was simply good.

***

I was typing columns of numbers from a VAT invoice into my computer. The black screen of the old DOS application burned my eyes. The old company computer hummed and crackled. Sometimes the Shift key would freeze, and the spacebar would double-space. Fearing for my poor eyes, which even special glasses couldn't protect against the deadly radiation from the ten-year-old monitor, I didn't even look at the screen. I followed the columns of printouts with my eyes and entered the data into the income catalog without looking at the keyboard. I didn't need a divergent squint to make sure I was tapping in the right place. I could do it blindfolded. And only sometimes did I think I could use more fingers—one for each digit, and pinkies for the tab key on the left and backspace on the right. And perhaps a small, mobile growth in the middle of my right hand so I wouldn't have to take my fingers off the numbers to type a comma.

I took the last sip of coffee. A circle had been left on the invoice where I'd so practically placed the cup. I didn't want it to fall to the floor and get dirty, so I pressed it down with something heavy. And I needed a coffee mat – my third today. I'd been sitting here since seven in the morning, praying my boss wouldn't keep me at work too late. Not on Friday. Not this Friday. I was supposed to pick up Dominik from Krysia at exactly five. I didn't want to be late.

At exactly three, I turned off my computer, put my sunglasses with the filter in the box, the box in my pocket, and left. I managed to slip away unnoticed. My boss didn't stand in my way with that sweet smile that always meant the same thing: he wanted something from me, and the wider his smile, the longer it would take me.

I got home at four. I was hungry, so I grabbed a candy bar from the sideboard to flatten my stomach. I washed it down with some juice. A beer was tempting, but I was about to get behind the wheel. Besides, I didn't want to burp in front of the kid. It would be the perfect excuse for Krysia not to let me have Dominik for the weekend.

I got in the shower and rinsed off eleven hours of sweat under the icy stream. I ran out and—completely naked, because in my own house I was allowed anything—took it dry in the bedroom. I put on a clean T-shirt and jeans, combed my hair, put on my sneakers—and I was ready. I looked like my son's somewhat overgrown friend, not the father of this nine-year-old.

I grabbed my cell phone from the sideboard and called Krysia. She was listed in my address book as K, which sometimes, after a beer or two, I found amusing.

"Hi. I'm on my way," I said curtly. "

Okay," she replied, and hung up.

A chill air filled the air—which didn't really surprise me. For three years, our phone conversations had gone like this: two or three words from me, followed by a terse, icy "fine" or "ok." Not that I regretted it or expected anything more. It was good. Short and concise. I saved time and impulses.

We met fifteen years ago, when I was twenty and Krysia was nineteen, and something just clicked. Just like that, poof—and we were a couple. No pretense, no deceptive maneuvering like an innocent, casual invitation for coffee, and then dragging her to restaurants and cinemas hoping it wouldn't be our last. No. We simply noticed each other at a party by a bonfire, under the stars—I looked at her, she looked at me. Then we went for a walk in the nearby forest, the three of us—she and I, sharing a beer. Then I drove her home. We almost ended up in the backseat right under her parents' balcony. We waited a week. From that moment on, we were practically inseparable and hung out very often. And everyone told us we were perfect for each other, even her parents. And we were. We weren't exactly alike, because that's not the point. But there were no tensions, conflicts, or arguments between us. We always got along, and for several years, we managed to avoid any major friction. We were miraculously well-matched—like two smooth, perfectly aligned surfaces, sparking at their intersection. Her touch drove me crazy, and her smile disarmed me. It was something incredible and powerful, something that someone on the outside couldn't understand—because they hadn't experienced it. A magnetism that drew us together, even though she didn't like football and my jokes didn't amuse her, and I wasn't moved by Dave Matthews Band music, and it always seemed to me that I preferred blondes. There was practically nothing in common between us. We loved each other so simply, for no reason and for nothing. And when one day it simply fizzled out, there was nothing left. We lived under the same roof, connected by two wedding rings and the same surname. Back then, we were still sleeping in the same bed, but we could lie there for hours before finally falling asleep, and nothing happened. Her fingers, wandering over my skin, seemed bored and lost. They used to find the right paths and ways to make me white-hot. Then, at most, they tickled. We wanted to fix it, to bring back that magic—out of sentimentality, longing, or perhaps pity, whether for ourselves or for the other person. I think Dominik came from that. But what resulted in his conception I can't call anything other than copulation. A simple fuck—a dispassionate grinding of hips. I don't know what I felt then, or if I felt anything at all. I don't know what impregnated Krysia. Sometimes I thought Dominik had appeared out of thin air; that Krysia's belly had inflated itself to monstrous proportions. And when Dominik was born—without any problems, without complications, healthy and strong, with a hair already on his head—we thought things would get better. We hoped this child would unite us. We moved our beds apart, and his cradle stood between them. We drifted further and further apart,until our beds were against opposite walls—and sometimes we still tried to do something about it. I remember one time, when he was maybe four, we left him at my mother's for the weekend and went home alone for the night. It was probably our anniversary. After dinner, we made love by candlelight. It was a nightmare. I felt like I was cutting sandpaper. She writhed beneath me, probably more from pain than pleasure, and moaned, I think, just to get me to stop. That was our memorable last time, after which I spent a week in pain and she was nursing bedsores. We divorced a year later. She got custody. I managed to negotiate a weekend with my son every other week. Meeting on Friday, at 5 p.m. sharp, and again on Sunday at 8 p.m., not a minute later.

I pocketed my wallet. Before leaving the apartment, I went to the window to turn off the blaring radio.

My finger suddenly stopped in midair above the switch.

"In two days, at this time, the world will end," I heard.

The microwave dial read 4:23 PM.

I had thirty-seven minutes.

***

"Daddy!"

Dominik wrenched himself away from his mother as soon as he saw me. He yanked his hand from hers and ran to me as I got out of the car. Krysia didn't even move. She was standing on the threshold of the house—a small tenement house surrounded by a metal fence. I would have put the kid in the car and driven away without a word, but I noticed Krysia looking expectantly at us—maybe at me, maybe at him. I took my son's hand and reluctantly walked toward the house.

I raised my eyebrows questioningly, standing at the gate. She held out the little one's backpack to me. I approached slowly, as if to a plague victim, and took it from her.

"You'll help him with his homework," she said. A statement, not a question. An order.

I nodded. We stood for a moment, looking at each other without a trace of sympathy, but without hostility. Something held me there. I don't know if it was me or her. One of us seemed to want to say something.

"Do you believe in that?" she asked.

"What?" I asked, surprised. I didn't know what she was talking about.

"Well, this... end of the world...

" "No.

" "That's good," she replied, and I think she sighed with relief.

I grimaced. She'd always been so naive. She believed in fortune tellers, horoscopes, Nostradamus. And now this. Some stupid ad had scared her so much that she'd spoken to me. We hadn't spoken in a year. We'd passed Dominik around without a word. And suddenly she asked me about such stupidity. I was starting to feel something like contempt... maybe pity.

The boy snatched my backpack from me and slung it over one shoulder. He ran up to my mother, and when she leaned over, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, he kissed her cheek. Then he grabbed my hand and dragged me to the car. If I'd left the keys in the ignition, he probably would have climbed into the front left seat and driven away.

"Where are we going?" he asked as he settled into the backseat and buckled his seatbelt. We were buddies, but Dominik was still my son, too, and he was nine years old, so I wouldn't let him ride in the front and reminded him to buckle up properly before we set off.

"Pizza! I'm starving!" I hadn't eaten dinner for that very reason. I wanted to eat with my

son. Take him to a fast food restaurant and stuff ourselves full of something tasty, fattening, and not necessarily the healthiest, washed down with unhealthy soda, and not worry about a thing.

"Dominik! Have some manners," I scolded my son when he burped after eating an unhealthy meal he'd eaten a few hours earlier. A loud, bassy burp escaped him, earning my quiet admiration. But a nine-year-old shouldn't burp like an old beer drinker.

"I'm sorry."

It was almost eight in the evening, and my son and I were playing Monopoly on a hastily cleared table. I was glad that my kid wasn't, unlike most of his peers, an uncritical TV buff. I could play a simple game with him. A pleasant, radiation-free distraction. He didn't fidget or wheeze, and he didn't fumble for the TV remote. He liked reading books. He drew—quite well. I considered it a success for my ex-wife that Dominik could take care of himself. Krysia didn't have to invent questionable activities for him like violin lessons, singing lessons, tennis, or chess club. I was glad he wasn't trying to use my money to turn our son into a robot who lived by the clock, a fixed schedule from morning to night, and a calorie counter. Dominik was normal. He studied quite well, though not eagerly, and had a quite sensible approach to life for a nine-year-old.

He also clearly had more business acumen and luck than his thirtysomething father, because while he was buying up another power plant, I was serving a few rounds in prison.

"Don't worry, Dad, it's just a game."

This remark, coming from a man twenty-something years younger than me, surprised and amused me. You'd think a kid would be thrilled by success in a simple board game, determined by the roll of a dice and dependent on a few counterfeit bills, as if it were real. Yet, it turned out that the older a person got, the more ambitious they became, and failures in a simple board game made them reflect on their wasted life. I gave him a head start , but he would have beaten me mercilessly even without it. I was starting to feel uneasy in this situation—behind the bars of a paper prison, represented by a symbolic pawn.

"Shall we watch TV?" I asked hopefully at one point. Dominik raised his eyebrows. He shook his head. "Mommy won't allow it." Even though Krysia wasn't here, so as long as he didn't spill the beans, we could do whatever we wanted, I had to admit he—or rather, she—was right. It was after nine. Bedtime cartoons were long gone, and if I turned on the TV now, Bruce Willis would probably be jumping around, blazing hot air, or something even more interesting and, as such, unacceptable for a nine-year-old. In a different situation, I might have watched it, but having this little guy under my roof changed things somewhat.

I put him to bed at ten—as befits a good father—and went to sleep on the couch in the living room maybe half an hour later.

***

I'd lived and lived alone for four years. I can't say I complained. I didn't miss it. By choice, I didn't get into any more relationships. Life didn't offer me many opportunities, because I worked for a company with foreign capital, where ninety-nine percent of the staff were men, and the one percent who were women were so crowded that I could give up. I didn't go to bars—although there were certainly women there who would be interested in a thirty-something guy with a good job, a nice car, and a cozy apartment in the suburbs. Unfortunately, I had principles, so the only person I did business with at the bar was the bartender, where I exchanged currency for beer. If I wanted, I could have done something more. I wasn't the ugliest, and I was quite tall. Somehow, I managed to avoid the beer belly that comes with that age, and my hair stayed firmly in place. But I didn't want anything. What I had suited me perfectly. I lived in a nice house, in a quiet neighborhood, with nice neighbors, unsupervised. I could walk around naked without bothering anyone. I could do with impunity anything any woman would scratch my eyes out for: leaving the toilet seat up, panties on the floor, dirty dishes on the table, and a mug on the TV. When Krysia moved out, I pushed the beds back together and slept on two. I bought a bigger duvet and was happy that it was all mine. My life was mine, mine alone, and that was fine. I didn't want to share it with another woman.

I made an exception for this little guy. I happily took him to my place every other weekend, even though it practically turned my life upside down. When I had him under my roof, many things that were permitted became forbidden, and many things that were desirable became forbidden.

I jumped up from the sofa where I was sleeping and rushed to the fridge to check if there was any beer. Because there wasn't supposed to be any. I didn't expect the kid to grab a bottle from the fridge, open it with his teeth, and drain it completely, but on principle, when Dominik was home, there couldn't be any alcohol in it.

There was no beer. There was nothing at all. The fridge was completely empty. I always did the larger shopping with my son, and during the week I only occasionally bought the most essential things—and sometimes I didn't feel like even that. Now there wasn't even anything for breakfast, or at least I wasn't going to give the child dry, moldy bread with rancid butter. We'd eaten the leftover cornflakes with milk yesterday. I was even running out of tea bags.

***

On Saturdays, the little one slept until nine, sometimes ten. It was shortly after eight, so I could sneak out unnoticed for a little shopping. I didn't want to drag him out for hamburgers and Coke in the morning. One evening of culinary carefreeness was enough. I had to take care of this kid, and therefore feed him—and not just any food. I wasn't given written instructions and didn't carry a calorie chart with me, but using common sense, I could prepare Dominik a non-toxic breakfast, followed by a good lunch and dinner, after which he would retain his natural color.

The nearest delicatessen, where I could stock up on everything I needed for a weekend with my son, was a stone's throw from my house, a few dozen meters down the street. On the way, I mentally listed what I needed to buy. Bread. Maybe toast—but that was for dinner. Something to go with that bread. Some ham, yellow cheese, or jam. Butter, of course. Tea. Something to drink. Juice rather than carbonated drinks. No beer, at least until Monday. Coffee. For dinner, something tasty, nutritious, and relatively easy to prepare. Rice with some sauce. With a little concentration, I might be able to avoid overcooking it, but it takes real talent to mess up a ready-made sauce.

I pushed against the heavy entrance door—as if guarding the store from customers—with my entire body and nearly dislocated my shoulder. The door wouldn't budge under the pressure. I tugged on the doorknob several times. The store was clearly closed. I noted with amusement that the world was ending.

I went to the supermarket a few hundred meters away.

***

When I returned, Dominik was already dressed, sitting in front of the TV, watching cartoons. When I entered, he showed no signs of nervousness, impatience, or fear. He was simply waiting for me.

"What's for breakfast?" he asked.

I made a couple of rather uninspired ham and cheese sandwiches, set them on the table in front of the TV, and sat down next to my son. We watched our morning block of animated films together, where no one was hitting anyone with heavy objects – good old cartoons about cavemen in ties and ducks in sailor suits. They still looked great for their age, and I enjoyed watching them with my child, even though it's supposedly inappropriate for a man in his thirties. Perhaps in some prudent mother's mind, watching Donald Duck's adventures stunted or regressed development. It's scary to think what they did to my brain when I started watching them with my son, and then even by myself, as a man in his early thirties. I don't know. I didn't feel any less stupid. Donald Duck was alright. I was the one who took my little one to see Shrek, and I was the one who laughed the loudest in a room full of toddlers. Afterward, I had to endure the contemptuous glances of mothers and their offspring. Of course, I had my limits, and Scooby-Doo was an insult to my intelligence, and little yellow Japanese monsters shooting fireballs terrified me. I don't know who produced such things, who allowed them to be broadcast, and who in their right mind would let their child watch them. Fortunately, Dominik was no longer five, and cartoon violence held no interest for him at all, while classic animation inspired a healthy laugh in him.

"Shall we go for a bike ride?" he asked, glancing toward the window, when the glass screen no longer had anything to offer the nine-year-old boy. It was beautiful May weather outside. The sun shone in a nearly cloudless sky. Only here and there the wind spun small clouds across the blue. It was a waste of a day to linger indoors.

"Wait, I'll just watch the news, and then we'll go," I replied.

At least once in a while, it was useful to know what was happening in the world. I didn't follow the news. I barely read newspapers, not so much out of laziness as because my eyes, which after eight hours in front of the computer no longer had the strength to read the tiny specks on the shoddy paper, would reach me in passing from the radio tinkling in the window. Snippets of information reached me, completely in passing. Single words. In my free time, I simply wanted to see this and that.

"Yesterday at 4:23 p.m. Central European Time, a mysterious message was repeated," the young presenter announced in a serious tone tinged with terror. Then I heard a familiar slogan that struck me as a cheap advertisement: In two days, at this time, the world will end. "A similar message has been received by radio stations around the world, at every latitude. This short message has been broadcast every day for the past two days, simultaneously around the world, at 4:23 p.m. Central European Time, 3:23 p.m. Greenwich Mean Time, in the official language of each country," the presenter continued.

I tilted my head.

- Hmm...

"This is not an advertisement. The message usually appears in advertising blocks, but as radio station spokespeople report, no one paid for such an advertisement. No one is planning a promotional campaign under this banner. No hacking of the station's frequency has been detected. Despite attempts, it has not yet been possible to determine where the messages are being recorded. Independent analyses of the audio recordings have not detected any ambient noise that would indicate the possible location of the recordings. Therefore, it is impossible to trace their authors. Large-scale terrorist attacks are suspected, simultaneously around the world, but no known terrorist group has admitted to such plans. It is also unclear what the threat would consist of: whether they are planning assassinations of politicians, bombings, attacks using biological or nuclear weapons, or open war. Extensive precautions have been taken. In the United States, Code Red was declared yesterday morning. The military has placed a guard over the Capitol. Airports have been closed, and civilian flights over Washington and other state capitals have been banned."

A few snapshots were shown. A bewildered Bush Jr., urging people to calm down, surrounded by a few advisors and bodyguards, blasé and clearly bored by the repeated terrorist threats. A military officer shouting into a microphone, drowned out by the roar of helicopters taking off. A few shots from Washington – seemingly a normal day, but people seemed more nervous.

"The European Union countries are also taking note of the announcement. Heads of state have been given special protection, and government buildings have been secured. Civilian public facilities are also being monitored by armed police units on alert."

Dominik sat down next to me. We looked into each other's eyes, but neither of us said a word.

"We're waiting for the next announcement, which we expect today at 4:23 p.m. Central European Time."

"Come on, let's go for a bike ride," I said. I was worried about these reports, but what was I supposed to do? Sit down and bite my nails?

***

I rode slowly, and Dominik was next to me on the bike I'd bought him and taught him to ride. We were heading to the park, where we couldn't race each other on the wide paths because of the strollers, but we needed company. People. Complete strangers, with whom we had no intention of getting to know or talking, but simply wanted to be among them. We didn't want to sit alone at home. It was Saturday—a beautiful Saturday—and people, free from their jobs and responsibilities, needed to get out of their homes and get some fresh air. Get the kids away from the TVs and computers and show them how beautiful the world is.

"What are you thinking about?" Dominik asked.

He surprised me with this question, and only after a moment did I realize I wasn't really thinking about anything in particular. I was just staring ahead and admiring the view.

"Nothing. I'm just driving and looking.

" "You look worried.

" "Me? Maybe.

" "Is it because of that TV?" he asked. Smart guy.

"Possibly. I don't know what to think. The end of the world... It's strange... And I don't know whether to laugh or be scared. Does it even mean anything. Maybe it's some big joke or just an advertisement?"

"Hmm... That would be... sad... like it was really the end of the world," Dominik said. "It's nice here, right now, in this park. I want to come back here in two weeks, and in a month. I want to go for ice cream with my mom on Monday. We're going to the theater with my class on Tuesday. The tickets are already paid for, so if the world ended, we'd lose a lot of money, and who would give it back? Is there money in heaven?

" "Everything's free in heaven," I told him with a smile. "Or at least I hope so.

I was also secretly hoping the entrance tickets wouldn't be too expensive.

"Dad, have I been baptized?" my son asked me.

"Yes, what?

" "Are you sure?

" "Yes."

The boy sighed with relief.

"That's good.

" ***

We put our bikes in the garage. Dominik dismounted and ran up the entrance steps, where he was waiting for me. I slowly clambered after him. Everything hurt. Apparently, despite my good health and decent looks, I wasn't as fit as I thought. This one-time effort made me realize it. Not in my weight, but I had noticeably lost weight, and now I was going to get sore.

Domik and I were ravenously hungry.

I put on some water for rice and went to the shower.

I felt proud that I'd managed not to ruin dinner. Apparently, even I could cook something passable, because my son didn't complain—and he was picky, like a child. Adults with more important things on their minds will eat anything: burnt, charred, undercooked, overcooked, or raw, without batting an eyelid. They'll grab whatever's available, just to fill their stomachs so they don't grumble. A child fusses if something's too salty, too sour, too sweet, too hard, or too soft.

"Thank you," Dominik said. He scooped up the last grain of rice with his fork, swallowed, and placed the cutlery on his plate. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Krysia would have scolded him. I just winked at him and did the same. I leaned over the table, picked up his plate, and carried both of them to the sink.

I glanced furtively at the microwave dial. It was 4:21 p.m.

- Dominik, turn on the radio.

- What's on the radio?

- Just turn it on.

I put down the dishes and went to the window where the radio stood. I turned the volume knob to the right and flinched as the announcer paused and announced a commercial break.

Dominik approached me and looked anxiously at the small radio.

"Tomorrow at this time, the world will end."

A cold shiver ran through me. Dominik paled. That voice chilled us. No, it wasn't an ad. There was nothing alluring or hypnotic about the slogan, nor its tone. A quiet, matter-of-fact, calm message—and that was terrifying. This wasn't a message from terrorists. Not a threat. Armed men shouted threats. No one was shouting here. There was no sound of hoarse anger, unhealthy rage, or bloodlust. The specialists had rightly suspected it was something absolutely serious—but they had completely unnecessarily cordoned off government buildings with troops. The sound technicians, who determined that the recording contained no hidden messages, no murmurs, hidden tracks, or the crackling typical of edited recordings, had missed something obvious. This woman—for it was a woman delivering this message, a fact I noticed with surprise only now—was not a terrorist. She wasn't reading a message from a piece of paper, and a masked man wasn't standing over her with a gun pointed at her temple. There was no fear in her voice. Calm. Only calm. A melodic, beautiful, calm voice that wasn't trying to threaten or seduce. As if... angelic. He just wanted to make an announcement. He just wanted to say that tomorrow would be the end of the world. And it sounded deadly serious. Not like a threat. More like a plan—finished to the last detail.

***

I was watching The Simpsons with Dominik. I was the one who got him hooked on that show. But now I was laughing more quietly. Scratch and Scratch weren't as funny, and the sight of a cartoon nuclear reactor terrified me. The melody over the credits seemed somehow sepulchral, ​​like a Halloween episode. I couldn't shake the thought that this was the last episode of The Simpsons I'd watch.

"Don't worry, Dad," Dominik said. I looked at him, forcing a smile.

There were twenty-two hours left until the end of the world. I could feel it. I knew deep down that this was serious. Absolutely serious, irrevocably—and getting closer with every second. And all I could do was sit and wait. Watch bedtime cartoons for some entertainment and a laugh before the deadly serious and definitive end of everything.

"Dad, Shrek is on TV tonight," Dominik said, flipping through the schedule. "Shall we watch it?"

For now, it was comforting that the world was still functioning. In less than a good year, it was supposed to end—and meanwhile, according to the schedule, a cartoon about a huge, hideous ogre was playing on television. It wasn't interrupted to broadcast the president's address to his countrymen and show snapshots from tearful cities. No. Everything was fine. Tomorrow was supposed to be the apocalypse. The world was supposed to go mad, then squawk. Today, it was partying as if nothing had happened. It was comforting, I thought. It was comforting that everything ends here and now, and that it revolves around humans. I once watched a program on Discovery. Wild Future or something like that. It showed what the world would look like in ten thousand years, a hundred thousand years, and a few million years. And according to biologists, it was supposed to be a world without humans. Humans were supposed to die out, and the world would be ruled by ospreys—squids that jumped from tree to tree—and elephant ospreys. I thought it was sad, unfair, and so... empty. It seemed to me that humans—despite their weaknesses, destructive tendencies, and general rudeness—were the pinnacle of creation. That creative thought and speech were the most wonderful things that had ever happened—at least in concept, if not always in practice. It would be a pity if this were negated and destroyed—if books ceased to exist, rotted and decayed, and there was no one left to read them, and the world continued to spin as if nothing had happened. I was glad that science had been wrong. I smiled weakly to myself.

***

The next day, Sunday, I woke up after ten with a severe headache. I pulled up the blinds in my room, and the daylight almost hurt. The sun didn't blind me. It was invisible. The sky was covered with thick, billowing, heavy clouds, behind which only the faint light that defined the day shone.

I went to the kitchen and dug the last aspirin out of the drawer. I washed it down with water and waited for my head to stop pounding. The blood pressure was killing me.

Dominik got up shortly after me.

"Hi, Dad!" he said from the bedroom doorway. "What's for breakfast?" he asked, settling himself in his pajamas before the television. He grabbed the remote and pressed the power button.

The television didn't respond.

"Hey, what's up?" grumbled Dominik, who had planned to watch a block of Disney cartoons over breakfast.

I looked up from the breadboard for a moment and was surprised to find that the red light on the set wasn't on. I checked the radio. It wasn't working either. I flicked the light switch—nothing. Only now did I notice that the refrigerator wasn't humming quietly like it should, and when I opened the door, the light didn't come on.

I grabbed my cell phone to call the power plant - but the LCD screen was dead and didn't respond either when I tried to enter a number or when I held the On/Off button, almost squeezing it in, hoping to finally turn the phone on.

Resigned, I put my phone on the windowsill and prepared breakfast for Dominik and myself.

"Come on, let's do some homework," I said after we'd finished our ham and cheese sandwiches.

"Why?" Dominik grimaced.

"What do you mean, why? Mom will be very angry if I drop you off without your homework done.

" "The world is ending today," he reminded me emphatically. "You know, that's actually a good thing, because there was supposed to be a math test tomorrow. What a relief!

" "Maybe we'll do it after all, huh?

" "Come on, Dad," the boy said.

"Shall we play Monopoly?

" "I have a headache..."

***

We went for a walk. We each grabbed a sandwich. I put a bottle of juice in Dominik's backpack. We wanted to take a walk, get some fresh air before the world ended. We brought raincoats just in case it started raining—which it looked like it would from the very morning. The air was still, and the clouds hung heavy above our heads, as if it were about to rain any moment. Something hung in the air—a tension that the wind hadn't dispelled. The palpable weight of a muggy, windless day. I looked up at the clouds, which covered the sky tightly, as if behind their curtains the final, feverish preparations for the end of the world were underway. Here, on earth, a peculiar kind of twilight reigned. I glanced back and saw no shadow of my own, and in the dim, colorless light, everything was strangely sharp—the texture of the asphalt and the intense concentration on Dominik's face. Without the sun to turn everything yellow, the world is simply what it is. It seemed very appropriate.

I felt tension, but not fear. A solemn acknowledgment.

Dominik pulled the hood of his waterproof jacket over his head. He tightened his grip on my hand.

"Good morning!" I shouted to my neighbor standing by the fence across the street.

"Good morning!" she shouted back. "And hopefully, see you soon!"

She waved at us again, then looked up at the sky.

The streets of the suburb were deserted. I passed a few people. However, the closer we got to the city, the more people—friends and strangers—I encountered on the road.

"Good morning."

Soon I was pushing through crowds of people standing on the sidewalks and streets in tight groups, or walking nervously back and forth, shifting from foot to foot as if waiting for a train to the capital.

"Excuse me, excuse me..." I repeated over and over, pushing my way through the increasingly dense crowd. I pulled Dominik along behind me.

"Dad, where exactly are we going?" my son asked.

I stopped and turned to him. I stared at him for a long moment before answering. The question actually surprised me. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to go for a walk, but if I were sensible, I wouldn't have pushed my way through the crowd, but I would have gone to the park or gone home. Meanwhile, I was pushing my way through the dense wall of people with the tenacity of a maniac, not knowing why.

When I realized this, I surprised myself.

"To see my mom," I replied, astonished by my own words.

"You still have time," Dominik reassured me. "It's only after two. We have five hours.

" "No," I said. "We have two hours."

I gave him a piggyback ride because the crowd I was pushing through was giving way before me, but closing in again right behind me, and once I almost ripped a child's arm off, dragging him behind me when he got stuck in the crowd. I hissed at them to let go of my child, but it wasn't until I shouted at them that they reacted at all. They stared at the sky with rapt attention. Everyone seemed to be expecting that if something were to happen, the first signs would appear in the sky. What were they expecting? I don't know. I didn't ask. That a rain of fire would fall? That the sky would part and there would be light? I don't know. I didn't know what to think. I don't know. I waited—like everyone else. And I just wondered: why today? Why not Christmas, or Easter, but May 15th—a day like any other. The anniversary of something completely insignificant. I walked along, glancing up at the sky from time to time. Immense crowds poured out into the streets and stood there as if transfixed, frozen in expectation. Fear and uncertainty were deeply and clearly etched on their faces. They didn't speak. They didn't look at each other at all. Even when I passed them, apologizing, and pushing them aside to let them pass, they didn't even glance at me. All eyes were turned skyward.

I passed a group of young people, maybe college students, who were the only ones breaking away from the silent crowd. They were singing—or rather, chanting—a simple song. Basically, just the chorus, which they repeated over and over. They looked at each other, shook their heads in unison, and tried again, this time changing the melody slightly. I didn't know the song. It was simple and catchy, the kind they always enjoy on the radio and play until they're tired of it. This one, however, was completely unfamiliar to me. I assumed these kids had just composed it on the spur of the moment and were now trying to find a melody for it. I had the impression that if it weren't for the circumstances, the song could have become the radio hit of the season.

"That's good," Dominik shouted after another rehearsal.

"Thanks, kid," the boy with the beard and waist-length auburn hair shouted back.

They chanted again. Even though I'd already walked a few meters away, I thought I could hear more voices, as if with each word someone new joined in. I found myself humming quietly to myself:

"It's not over yet... See you soon...

" ***

"Dominik!"

The boy shifted restlessly on my shoulders.

"Dad, dad!" he shouted, tapping me on the head.

"What's wrong, kid?

" "I see Mom!"

I turned to the left and saw Krysia's hand waving desperately over the crowd. Dominik patted my shoulder to get him down. When I set him down, he rushed into the crowd and pushed through the legs to his mother.

I followed him, pushing through the crowd.

"I bought you a new hat," Krysia said, placing a red jockey cap on his head.

She looked up at me in surprise as I emerged from the crowd. Dominik ran up to me, took my hand, and pulled me toward her. He grabbed hers. The three of us stood on the threshold of a tenement building—Krysia and I face to face, Dominik between us.

I didn't look down, and she didn't turn away. We looked into each other's eyes. Without animosity, without hatred. Without the indifference we'd shown each other for ten years. I saw a tear welling in her eye.

"Thank you..." she whispered.

I just nodded. I didn't know what to say.

"I was afraid to call..." she continued. "I wanted to... but you know... pride...

" "I know...

" "Besides, I didn't think it was really...

" "Me neither.

" "Jurek, is this really happening?" she asked, tears streaming down her cheeks.

I looked up at the sky.

"I think so...

" "Thank you for being here...

" "It was my duty...

I'd be a pig if I didn't come. We didn't hate each other, but over the years we'd had a few minor tantrums. We'd had a few arguments about Dominik. Once she scolded me for being late on Sunday. Another time, she told me off for wearing a dirty T-shirt, as if I couldn't wash it. Sometimes I'd make a sarcastic remark about his mother in front of the child. But I wasn't a pig. She didn't deserve this. I had the right to be with Dominik until seven, but at four twenty-three the world was ending, and I would have been the worst kind of scoundrel if I hadn't let my ex-wife see our child.

I don't know how it happened, but I simply walked over to her and hugged her. I pressed my face close to hers. She wrapped her free arm around me. I felt her hand on my back. Her warmth warmed my skin through the thick material of my raincoat. She pressed me closer to her.

I felt. I felt again.

It took us fifteen years, but I finally loved her—the way you should love another person. Like an inseparable part of yourself. And if the end of the world caused that, then it was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened.

I checked my watch. It was four twenty-two.

I looked at Krysia, nestled against me with her eyes closed. Dominik looked at me, and under the gray sky, his face was almost white. He was crying too.

His face suddenly brightened. A pure radiance illuminated it. Dominik smiled, looking up. Not at me. He was staring at the sky with large, bright eyes. I lifted my head and saw the dark clouds parting, and from behind them emerged a deep blue sky. The clouds spread across the blue. They danced across it like the aurora borealis—pink and green.

I felt the warmth and radiance emanating from the zenith. I lifted my head as high as I could and looked directly into the sparkling ball of pristine white light. Not the sun. The sun was sliding below the horizon, pale and dull in the face of what shone down on us from above. I watched, entranced. The glare didn't blind me. It didn't cause me pain. The only thing that hurt was my neck—and yet I couldn't tear my eyes away.

The end of the world was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. The end of the world was the most beautiful thing in the world. The greatest miracle that had ever happened, and perhaps the best thing that could have happened to it. People from all over the world poured into the streets, and color didn't matter, because no one was looking at anyone. Opinions or faith didn't matter, because no one questioned anyone. Language didn't matter, because everyone remained silent, staring at the sky. And they all went to heaven together. A golden glow illuminated them and drew them upward. It freed them from worries and insecurities. It freed them from the torment of their physicality. Golden souls rose to the sky like champagne corks. The sky filled with golden sparks.

I took Dominik in my arms. I hugged Krysia. I closed my eyes.

We became one. Finally.