3

I swore to God this morning that if anybody else mentioned my inside-out shirt to me, I would punch him in the face. Now this nun, a goddamn nun, was telling me my goddamn shirt was inside-out like she was my personal dresser. Carson freaking Kressley gay married to Jesus and all dolled up in a habit whispering fashion advice to me. Like I could take off my shirt right here on the goddamn bus and turn it right-side-out and put it back on without everybody thinking that was a whole hellava lot worse than just a freaking tag sticking out and maybe some visible seams. Who the hell cared? And now I had to punch this stupid, goddamn nun in the face. My luck.

2

For Beth, the hardest part about going into work every day was knowing the world would end while she was in her cubicle. The trouble was, she didn't know which day it would be. She didn't even know if it would be before or after lunch. Beth tried hard to recall if she had been wearing this particular green sweater, but although she was always in her visions, she was never able to see herself.

The blast would shatter the windows at the far end. Jan and Charlie, Lisa and Nancy would all be toast because they had seniority and therefore got the cubicles with a view.

"Good morning, Elizabeth." The rich smell of coffee would be mingled with dust and smoke.

"Morning." Beth continued her slow walk, remembering Connie's head rolling past on the rubble-strewn carpeting. She let her fingers trace the carpeted wall of hers, the most junior of junior "offices", right next to the busy hallway leading to the copier, the bathrooms, the elevators.

Beth hesitated before entering, as if the step across the threshold would herald the explosion. Her vision said she would be sitting, typing, but that didn't make the first step into her cubicle any easier. If her vision about the man hadn't come true already, she wouldn't be having this much trouble with the end of the world.

1

It was a bus stop, one of the three-sided glass enclosures with a graffiti-carved slat bench, and it smelled like urine. The remaining fluorescent bulb flickered and buzzed, causing more irritation by still working than if it just had gone dark. Leaves and bits of unrecognizable paper trash piled in the corners, dampened and dried into detritus sculptures. To head-height the glass was opaque with scratches and smears of greasy fingers, hair gel, lipstick, spit, marker, newsprint, vomit and various beverages. The baby lay under the bench, quiet and still.