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I’m brushing my teeth and there’s a psychopath saying civilization will end tonight.

I consider whether to pack raisins or dates for the baby to take to daycare. Promise to make my son waffles but they are saying the world is ending, so I spend twenty minutes confirming the rumors and let them burn.

I give him five dollars for a snack, by way of apology. My whole day is an apology, a wet rag failing to dry a soaked bicycle seat. Outside, it’s snowing.

It’s April and the magnolias are curling into themselves in disappointment. Disembodied heads on my laptop screen chirp about performance metrics.

I check my watch, because the world is supposed to end in six hours. I want to spend this last afternoon contemplating the unbearable lightness of being.

Instead, I pull my laptop closer.

Type “I hope this email finds you well.”