The Night Before

The night before the earthquake was just like any other night. I mean, of course it was. Most of us don't live in a day-to-day fear that it's going to be our last day. And that's too bad. Sure, I know what you're thinking; you're thinking: 'Come on! We couldn't live like that, always afraid, always worried!' But to that I say: 'Aren't you afraid right now? Really? You have no worries? No family members going through a rough patch? No friends down on their luck? No unexplainable headaches or hot flashes or strange pains somewhere in your body? Do you actually feel immortal and invincible?' If you, do, well: good for you; but deep down I also call bullshit on your bullshit.

If you knew that today was your last day, wouldn't you do things differently? I know you'd skip work. Maybe you'd indulge yourself with a big meal, because who cares about saturated fat, carbs or whatever else is the baddie du jour? Wouldn't you hug your loved ones and finally tell them you loved them? Sure, you'd feel a bit sappy doing it and they'd make fun of you, but deep down they'd be having one of their best days and you'd know that sometimes sappiness ain't so bad, as long as it's the truth. But even then you'd feel guilty: thinking, wondering, why did you have to wait until the very last moment to tell them? Sure, you tell yourself they knew it all along, but they'd have liked to hear it from you nonetheless.

So, it was just like any other night. I arrived home from work and fixed myself a drink. Then my wife came back with our child after having picked him up from school. Pardon me if I don't share their names with you. This is all I have left: their memories and their names. I feel this should stay private. Anyway, as usual our kid ran to his bedroom to change into his pajamas, because he couldn't tolerate not wearing them when at home, and I never minded that, because he got that from me.

I was in my pajama bottoms and some old 90s Nick Cave concert t-shirt, drinking my Black Label while catching up on my Facebook posts.

God.

To think I spent so many hours reading whatever acquaintances wanted to share with me and sharing bullshit with whoever thought I was their friends, while I could have spent it talking to my kid, playing games with him, holding my wife's hand or just do nothing but sit and live and enjoy the non-bullshit. But, what can I say? I'm a child of my time and, although I've never given in to the Twitter bullshit or the Instagram fuck'a'doodle, I was an avid Facebook user. Not anymore. I mean, if you go silent for a while, but are still getting messages and texts and what-have-you, if you finally decide to tell your cyber friends what really happened, I have a feeling that seeing that little thumbs up icon light up time and time again would suck up what little faith in humanity I have left.

So, where was I? Yes. Facebooking, posting funny pics, liking pics of my hot half-naked female friends taken in places I'd never go, giggling, smiling, pretty much convincing myself that my life was just as it was supposed to be.

Meanwhile, my wife, the love of my life, the person I'd decided to spend my life with, the person to whom I had promised that I'd be a different kind of husband, well... she was cooking, without complaining. Here I was: my fat blobby ass in the comfy chair, typing with the hand that wasn't holding my booze and meanwhile she was in the kitchen, after a busier day than I'd had, cooking for me and our kid. How's that for equality? What freaks me out is how quickly I got used to it and totally took it for granted. What pisses me off is that I could have turned off my fucking laptop and walked the ten feet to our kitchen and kept her company, chatting and helping. But, no. Mr Important Guy had to share the ironic picture of a kitten.

The thing that makes me even sadder is that, had there not been that earthquake, I wouldn't be writing any of this and I'd still be doing what I just said I shouldn't have been doing. There's nothing like death to make you think about life. Isn't that totally fucked up?

So, after some time, I probably even thought: 'God, I'm hungry. When the fuck are we gonna eat?' But we eventually had dinner. And my wife, lemme tell you, she wasn't a 'defrost a Lean Cuisine' kinda person. She was a cook-from-scratch, 3-course-balanced-dinner kinda gal. That night we had a carrot salad for starter, then chicken with roasted potatoes and green beans and, finally, a fruit salad. It was delicious, I remember that much.

Probably because I know I'll never eat her food again.

We spoke about this and that. 'This and that' is all I can say, because I simply can't remember what we talked about. Probably about our day, about our kid's upcoming exams. Maybe about the shower that needed regrouting or that we had to buy new trash bags because the ones we had were just not good enough. Just idle bullshit talk, like everybody has, has had, and will always have.

But at this very moment, all I want is to be able to remember anything specific from that final family talk. Did one of us laugh? We weren't miserable, we'd had good times. Maybe that night was one of them. But I don't know, I just can't remember.

Then our kid and my loving wife did the dishes. Here's another irony: the devoted husband fucked off to watch the NFL, because that's what was expected of him and no one said anything because, hell: of course the man of the house deserves to watch some burly men in tight pants give one another concussions.

Our kid then went back to his room, to read, play video games, chat, download porn. Fuck if I know. As long as he was happy, so were we. My wife walked in with a big cup of camomile tea and snuggled next to me. I remember holding her in my arms, caressing her head like you automatically do when a faithful pet nuzzles up to you. I think I was happy. I think I was smiling. I like to think she was, too. But I can't be sure.

It started with a low rumble.

My first thought was that our kid was listening to some new kind of music that had an insane amount of bass. Kids will be kids. But then our knickknacks on our glass shelves started clink-clanking and our chandelier started swaying. My wife stood up, dropping her still-steaming cup of tea onto our beige carpet and I remember being annoyed at that, right before she half-screamed, half-whispered: 'Earthquake!' I was about to tell her not to panic when there was a loud crash and then: nothingness.

Now, I can see them picking up the pieces of our broken home, literally as well as figuratively. Tears streak down their faces. Other people are running around like panicked ants. There are flashing lights from fire trucks, glowing lights from gas fires, people in their slippers wandering the bumpy streets. I want to tell them all it'll be all right, they shouldn't worry so much. But, at the same time, I'm wondering where my goddamn bright shining light is. I'm not too worried, though. I can happily wait for it for as long as it takes. I'm in no hurry.

I just want to be able to look at my loved ones for as long as I can, but no matter how long it turns out to be, I know it won't be long enough.