And It Will Be Different
Someone said something about this being the end, and that was when they all went quiet. Four indiscernible forms on the pitch-black beach. Each brought a towel because none of them liked the feeling of sand when it got too involved in their clothes. Each one stared at the sky and each one felt it. They’d been laughing all evening, but it was only because they knew this was going to happen eventually. It was all a distraction. They couldn’t remember who brought up the end. Not even the one who said it could remember. It was spoken before it had been spoken, but now that it had been put into words, it was real.
“No, it isn’t the end,” one said. They all knew better. “It’s just going to be different.”
“Beyond different,” another mumbled. Everyone agreed.
One stirred, wrapping its arms around another to create two. This had not happened before, but neither of the still isolated forms cared to question it.
“We’ve already lost one,” one said. “There were supposed to be five of us.”
“We don’t know that. He could be alive,” one protested. Once again, they all silently disagreed. Everyone knew he was dead.
“How long do you think we have?” one rasped. This one had not spoken since before they began discussing the end. This voice was tired and afraid.
“Five minutes. Maybe four.”
“How do you know?”
“Listen.”
The hum of machinery in the night sky served as confirmation. All four fell silent again. It was true; time refused to slow down. Five minutes was a generous estimate.
“Well,” one said. “I’m glad we did this tonight. It’s really been nice, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” another agreed.
The steadfast humming grew louder. The stars were somewhat obscured by the emergence of a faint, white light in the sky.
“Oh, it seems we had less time than anticipated.”
One sat up and started to cry when memories struck. The faint light developed into a blinding beacon, and the humming a massive roar. One rolled over, face pushing the towel into the sand they’d shared their laughter on. The two held each other and shared a kiss. their first.
“This isn’t the end,” one of the two said to the other. “Things will just be
different.” In half the time it takes to blink one’s eyes, the beach was gone.