We are in the bunker, the two of us. Alone. My only wish had been to be alone with him. Now I am. Now he notices me. He’s not impressed. I used to believe that facing death together would make him see he loved me. His kisses would bring inevitable rescue. I had been an idiot, unaware that death, or even the threat of death, is not romantic.
Still, here we were. I persisted, put my hand out to touch his tissue thin t-shirt. It felt soft, like it had been washed a thousand times. My hand snaked under the shirt, found his skin, felt his rib.
“There’s no food here. What if they don’t come for us?” he said while brushing my hand aside, turning away. Always away.
“I have an apple,” I said.