We're making a fucking 15-second commercial for fucking Arby's, he says. We're not saving the world, calm down. You love listening in to other patrons at the bar, quiet Monday and mostly regulars, there's an easy comfort to the little room. The bartender exchanges book recommendations with the guy by the window while he waits for his Guinness. She pours a Lagunitas before the young guy in the corner has even stepped up to see her.
It occurred to you this morning that it's January and you are happy. Occurred to you that there's a lightness in your chest that you haven't been able to take for granted for a while. The world is on fire, but you are alive. You wonder if the world will last until summer, if the plans you make for when the leaves are green again will still be possible then. On the news, a woman in Greenland says they've made an exit plan. My parents and I agreed we'll have to leave them behind.
You read in history books, as a child, about a world that could never be again, about the monstrosity of humans that had been wiped from the world, that there was a unity now that would carry us into forever.
That world is gone now. And you have to decide what they will say about you
in the history books of the future.
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