The Day Before

Day 1

Zoe and Hans drink black coffee in the kitchen of their brownstone. 
Hans leans against the island counter.
 Zoe paces. 

They each lower their head to better read their Tinyphones. 
Stunted giraffe necks.
 An invasive species if there ever was one. 

Hans asks, “Did you see NAMBLA has a story time hour at a public library in Olympia?”

“Mhm.”

“...aaaannd...there’ve been 30 churches that caught fire in the last 45 days in one province alone in Canada. I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

“Global warming maybe?”

“100%.”

Zoe asks, “You heard about Memphis, I assume?”

“No, what?”

“They legalized all drugs, but only American descendants of African slaves are allowed to sell drugs.”

“Oh right. Yeah I saw that but didn’t click on the story.”

“How much time do we have?”

“It’s 8:07.”

All of a sudden the room comes alive with the sound of the X-files, the theme song for the 90s TV show. 
 Da da da dum dum. Whew whew whew whew whew whew.

Hans answers his phone with a smile. 
“Mother. Hello. Mhm. Yup. Love ya.”
 “Hmm.”

“She’s not going to church today. Says her hip is acting up.”

“Aw.”

“Also, she thinks St. Agnes is turning communist so she’s not going and maybe even looking for a new church.”

“So that means we don’t have to go, do we?

“Well, c’mon.”

Zoe takes her clothes off. 
“Well I guess…” Hans trails off. 
Turns his phone off and sets it on the counter. 

After one last sip of coffee, Zoe shoots Hans a glance and the tiniest tensing of her smile muscles. 

She walks past on her tiptoes, brushing Hans’ shoulder.

Church goes on without them.

Naked in bed with the covers up to her chest, Zoe scrolls on her screen. 
Head pinned against the headboard, bent neck next.

Hans goes from push-ups to squats and back. 

Church goes on without them. 

Zoe checks her phone and puts it away in her back pocket. 

She walks in the general vicinity of Hans, who walks the heeler border collie mix and is now collecting the poop of said canine or is trying to, but the plastic bag won’t open and this experience is a cliche based on frequency of occurrence and so the onion layers of existential dread and anguish are masterstrokes of mini-muscle contractions on his face — again with the subtlety and artistry these post-post-modern yuppies. One of several overlooked benefits to rampant narcissistic vanity, these overly niche facial expressions at the end of novelty. 

Church goes on without them. 
There’s a pandemic™. 
 Everyone is singing hymns through masks. 

The dog is pissing now. 
Hans is watching Zoe scroll her screen. 
 A man smoking a cigarette passes. 
The couple take turns sniffing at the air, each micro-rebelling/revelling in the homeopathic epsilon dose of nicotine. 

Church let’s out. 
Hans and Zoe are surprised to have happened upon their own congregation letting out. 
There are some stares, but mostly everyone giraffe crane necks over their Tinyphones.

Back at home, under the covers, a procedural crime show plays in the background, while Zoe and Hans get their last injection of hypno-gamified social media for the night. 

Fade to black and the alarm goes off. 
A Matt Farley cover of Sonny and Cher’s “I got You babe.”  
Sun is up. The dog is staring intently at a spot of sun on the hardwood. 

Monday morning. Up and at em. 
Black coffee in the kitchen as per usual. 
“You’ll be back early afternoon then?” he asks. 

“Actually I’ve got a thing, an appointment at 1. So I’ll be closer to 3 or 4. I might go grocery shopping.”

“Oh I’ll go.”

“No I got it.”

“What kind of appointment?”

“Doctor. Er, dentist. Doctor’s next week. Dentist.”

“Dentists are doctors.”

“I know, right?”

“So I’ll see you like 3 or 4 then?”

“Sure.”

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