We have been at it for hours. Bernie says he won't rest until the apple in front of us, is elsewhere. The inconceivable task of teleporation. I watch him press the button for the millionth time and I watch as nothing happens. I tell him it's useless and that it simply cannot be done but Bernie's opinion strays from the logic. Then, an explosion of light erupts in the place where the apple once sat. I run over to the booth and there in the spot that is usually empty, sits an apple with a bite taken out of it.

I fear to be forgotten

I fear to live my last day

I fear the shape of a coffin

I fear the last mention of my name

I’m scared one day he’ll miss me

but not in the way you’d like

that he’ll miss the very thought

of me inside his mind

I see you in my thoughts, I see you in my dreams

I see you in my coffee mug, three sugars, two creams

I see you in my memories, I wish I didn't though,

The thought of your touch on my lips,

I wish to let it go

I can't erase your shape

deep inside my mind,

the sound of your simple voice

the deep but quiet kind

I hate my name on the tip of your tounge

I hate it in your brain

I hate the way I love you

even though you bring me pain

I remember the day I realized I loved you. I remember it like it's a home movie at the back of my mind, playing on repeat always and forever. You were wearing that pretty blue dress that you found at the thrift store and your hair was in a messy bun and you were laughing and dancing around in that crappy bar at the end of the road and you made me dance with you even though you know I can't dance. I remember how free you looked. Like you had finally let go of the vicious weight that was constantly pulling you back. I remember the sound of my voice when I told you I loved you on the roof of that crappy bar and I remember being so completely terrifed that you wouldn't say it back but you did. You did.

In the time of isolation, I had forgotten the world. I forgot what shape the clouds were and I forgot the smell of rain. I forgot the touch of the sidewalk outside and I forgot the colour green. All I knew was whatever I could see within the four walls of my own house. I became much too familiar with the photograph that is hung above my fireplace and I believed that the gray colour painted on my bedroom wall was the only colour to exist. Eleven years in isolation, with the only outside we received was the mere sight of an open window. Anyone caught outdoors was immediately arrested and we were required to order food brought to us by flying drones. Those eleven years were the loneliest I had ever known. For someone who lives alone, this circumstance is simply unbearable. Most of us had lost our insanity long before the time the isolation was lifted. It has been twelve years since then and I still remember that day like it’s a home movie constantly playing at the back of my mind. I had just turned fifty-three and had not felt the earth’s wind since I was forty-two. By then, my mother and father were both long gone. I wasn’t even gifted the chance to say goodbye to them. Of course, I was crushed but I knew that the entire world or what was left of it, was just waking up from what felt like a lifetime of hibernation. The first thing I did was walk. I opened the front door that had forgotten the touch of fingertips and I stepped outside to the lonesome sidewalk that surely had missed the tap of my footsteps. I stood still and starred up to the sky. The feeling of the sun’s warmth on my face, is one I would never take for granted again. I walked all the way to the park that I had forgotten the shape of and when I touched the grass below, I ran. After a decade of staying still, I ran. I ran faster than my feet have ever taken me before and the floor below me felt softer than any silk or any kiss I had ever known. Mother Nature had claimed back most of the earth and the greenery had become dominant. Thick vines stangled the towering buildings that used to barely even have flower beds outside. The streets around were filled with rusty cars and bits of debris. Without the poison of constant travel, the air was cleaner and it was as if the after was better than the before. While the virus had wiped out 58% of the world’s population, Co2 levels had plummeted and the remaining humans grew to become more thankful for the little things. Now, life is better. The younger generations shall not worry about climate change killing them off and people are genuine and gracious. The Effect of the Aftermath, we call it.

I live on the seventeenth floor of an old building just down the road from the best pub in town. That is what my street is known for. The pub down the road. The old man who used to own that pub is short and gray and he happens to be my next-door-neighbour. His apartment is just beside mine on the seventeenth floor and we like to chat on our balconies. Sometimes he’ll pull up a little wicker chair right up to the railing and we will just chat for hours. We chat about the weather and my school and about his old ginger cat, Tuesday. We do this everyday and have so since I first moved into the building eight years ago when I was just ten years old. Mr. Mildon has lived in the building for thirty-three years and he says he has never met someone as lovely to talk to as me. This morning was one of those gray days. I don’t like gray days. They make the world feel so small and bleak. I pull myself outside to the balcony and peer over the rail to look down at the city below. I love the city. Most people simply can’t stand the deafening sounds of distant sirens and honking cars but I actually don’t mind it.

“Good Morning, Benjamin.” Mr. Mildon always calls me Benjamin even though I have gone by Ben since the first grade.

“Morning, Mr. Mildon. Some dreary weather we’ve got today, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t call it dreary.” I tilt my head in confusion. “I like clouds.” He says.

“Why is that?”

“Clouds bring rain.” He sits himself down on the little wicker chair and lets out a sigh. “I like the rain.” When my mother calls out to me and tells me it’s time to leave for school, I wave goodbye to Mr. Mildon and I tell him I will see him again.

When I arrive at school, everyone in my class is getting all excited for next week’s graduation party but I couldn’t be bothered. Why must we make a big deal out of finishing high school? It isn’t like we fought in a world war or saved a dog from a burning building like Mr. Mildon did. We simply just walked through the front doors once at 8am and then left out them again at 3pm. There isn’t anything particularly special about it. School is boring that day. The cloudiness is supposed to make the world feel smaller than usual but clouds bring rain and I like rain. When the bell rings at the end of the day, I hurry to catch the bus so I’m not late to for my chat with Mr. Mildon. I run quick enough that my feet feel like fire beneath me. I manage to flag down the bus driver before he shuts the doors and take my seat in the back corner. Some older lady tries to make conversation with me but I really don’t have that much to say to her. When I get home, it is 3:56pm and Mom tells me to unload the dishwasher. I quickly do so just to finish in time at 3:59pm. Mr. Mildon is already outside and he’s chatting away to Tuesday, who is laying on her back on the patio table.

“Benjamin! How was school?” He asks.

“School was school, Mr. Mildon.”

“What is one intresting thing that happened today?”

“Nothing.” He gives me a derisive look. “Well, graduation is next week.”

“Ah, I remember my graduation like it is a home movie playing at the back of my mind.” And then he tells me all about his high school graduation and how the moon looked that night and how he woke up the next morning in a stranger’s house with a weiner dog licking his face. I like that story.

By dinnertime, the air is too cold for us to stay outside so we say goodbye and I tell him I’ll see him again and then he nods and walks away. That night I get lost in the cracks on my ceiling. I watch as each of them trail off into separate corners with separate destinations and I wonder if that is what will happen after graduation. I wonder about which crack I will take and which crack my friends will take and then I get sad thinking about the future and leaving home so I close my eyes so I can’t see the cracks anymore.

I wake up after my alarm clock that next morning. The time reads 8:13 am and I wonder if I have already missed Mr. Mildon but when I step out to my balcony, he is just sitting there with a cup of tea in hand and not a care in his mind.

“Sorry Mr. Mildon, I missed my alarm this morning.”

“No worries Benjamin. What have you got on today?”

“Nothing in particular.” Again, he gives me that same derisive look. “Well I’ve got my final math quiz but I think it’s just for fun.” Then Mr. Mildon tells me all about how he never liked math when he was in school and that he had always preferred English. Our chat is cut short and I am rushed off to school so I tell Mr. Mildon I will see him again and he nods while I hurry back inside.

The week passes by with some type of urgent quickness. I suddenly find myself dressed head to toe in a graduation gown and cap and the only thing I am missing is my desire to graduate. Of course, I don’t want to stay in high school forever but perhaps just a little bit longer. My mother is persistently snapping pictures of me on the balcony and then Mr. Mildon comes out and he says I look fantastic and he tells me a quick story about how his graduation gown was the wrong size and he looked like he was wearing a very nice but very feminine dress. I wave goodbye to Mr. Mildon and tell him I will see him again tomorrow because I am staying at a friend’s house tonight and will not be coming home. The drive to school is slower than usual and I am anxiously bouncing my knee. I go over the way I will shake my principal’s hand, over and over in my mind so I don’t mess it up. On the way to the seating area, I practice my walk and flatten down my hair because it likes to get frizzy in warm weather. I meet up with my friends and we reminisce on our time in highschool and then our names begin getting called and my desire to graduate feels even more absent than it did before. Right before my name is called, I scan the crowd to look for my mom’s face and beside her I see a face I did not expect to see. Mr. Mildon’s is smiling big and he’s just staring up through the crowd and he looks much shorter than he did before. Mr. Mildon rarely leaves his house and when he does it is only for groceries or to go to the pub on Christmas Day. When my name is called, I try not to wave and by focusing so much on the not waving part of things, I forget to walk the same way I rehearsed moments before in the parking lot so now I worry about how my walk looked to the crowd. After the ceremony, Mom takes more pictures and then I take one with Mr. Mildon because I realize that even after being neighbours for eight years, we haven’t got a single one. When it’s time for me to go to my friend's house, I thank my Mom and Mr. Mildon for coming and I tell him I will see him again tomorrow, like I said before.

The graduation party is much better than I expected. We play games and I try alcohol for the first time and my friends laugh at me for barely being able to handle it. The next morning I may not have woken up in a stranger’s house like Mr. Mildon did but there definitely is a dog licking my face. I make my way home and the day feels obscure. Like something is off. Perhaps I am hung over or perhaps it is just one of those days. I arrive home to an empty apartment and a note on the refrigerator that says “Gone out for groceries - Mom”. She signs it “Mom” as if anyone else in this house will be leaving me notes telling of their whereabouts. I step outside to the balcony and Mr. Mildon isn’t there. That’s odd. He’s never late. I wait outside for about a half hour until my mom comes home. She asks me about my night and I tell her it was the most fun I have ever had and then she takes a deep breath and sits me down on the couch. Her eyes are droopy and she looks like she is about to cry.

“Sweetheart, I didn’t want to tell you yesterday and ruin your night.”

“Tell me what?” I say, bouncing my knee.

“Last night, Mr. Mildon passed away.”

I pause. He couldn’t have passed away. No. Because just yesterday we were laughing and talking and he was telling me all out his life and then I was going to come back this morning and tell him all about my night and the taste of the alcohol and then everything would be fine. I can’t hear the rest of what my mother says but I don’t want to. It’s not fair. Mr. Mildon was a good man. He didn’t deserve to go yet. I told Mom I wanted to be alone and then I went outside and turned to Mr. Mildon’s apartment and said,

“I will see you again.”

I once knew this girl who believed the world didn’t need her. She thought she’d be better off, far away in her own, made up one. She hated the smell of coffee but loved the smell of gin. She admired the word Venice but swore she’d never go. She hated cigarette smoke and perfectly rolled blunts but I’d always catch her slipping on my smoke break outside. I never truly understood what she meant when she said she wasn’t needed by the world. I always thought that meant she was sad inside but really, it meant she was happier than any of us down here on the other side of the sky could ever be.

I met her on one of those rainy days when the clouds are bigger than the sun. I was just finishing my shift down at the store, cleaning shoes, and I decided I’d walk home that day. Even though the puddles were bigger than the sidewalks, I walked. And I sure am glad I did because just before I crossed the busy street around the corner, I saw her. She was a funny looking thing with long, skinny legs and frizzy red hair but she was the most beautiful funny looking thing I had ever seen. Her eyes were made of the prettiest green and she had below, about a million freckles. She was sat on a bench with her face buried in a book and I pretended not to notice her when I strolled past but how could you not? She followed close behind me and I tried my best to act surprised when she tapped me on the shoulder and asked my name. When I asked her’s, she claimed it was anything. I never protested this although looking back, it does seem more than peculiar.

From that day on, we were inseparable. I watched her catch her first fish down at the quarry and she cried when I told her I would later cook it for supper. She made me throw it back, of course, but it made me love her even more because while I saw the fish as nothing but a tasty meal, she saw a life. We were together all throughout high school and I would have never even thought of another girl when I was with her. I watched her make the moon laugh and the sun cry. Her ability to move anything and everything around her was something I would always envy, but never understand.

The last time I saw her was the day of our high school graduation. We were all set off to our waiting lives as mechanics or school teachers or perhaps newspaper boys but not her. She had big plans, we just never knew what they were. The night before she left, I took her to the train station and she told me she’d see me again one day but I didn’t hold my breath because after that night I never did see her again.

Last I heard she was down in Portland, working in a cafe, with a baby boy and no husband. I always wondered if she would become the something that I always knew she could be but then I received a note to her funeral eleven years later and all the memories of my first love came to mind. By that time, I was already married with two beautiful children and had mostly forgotten about the girl with no name. I wondered what life would be like if she had never left though. If she had stayed here and loved me and we had grown old together like she said we would. I never did find out quite how she died. I imagine it couldn’t have been anything less than tragic considering the imprint she was just so determined to leave behind on this planet of ours. I wouldn’t say this planet of her’s because she did not consider this planet to be her’s. She consciously lived elsewhere, without a worry for identity or money or mistakes. Everything there was simply perfect. I do wish she had taken me there with her. I imagine ‘there’ would be something extraordinary, just like the girl with no name was to me.