No Bomb Needed

The morning sun soaked into the steely sky and reached out across the land, pushing through fences, sneaking between perfect pickets and neighborly slats. It fell over shingled rooftops, and brick chimneys threw shadows too long for them, like children playing as businessmen. The warmth and glow slid out and the land grew warmer by creeping degrees. The warmth coaxed life from the sleeping world, and a mocking bird, stiff with sleep, coughed notes that shook the silence. The warm ground roused the still air which breathed past windows and doors and chased brittle autumn sycamore leaves clattering down the black pavement.

Laura Wolfe stood barefoot on the front steps of her home, facing east as morning slanted over rooftops. She laced her fingers behind her head so the warmth fell across her soft inner arms, her armpits, her topmost ribs. Her smooth black hair caught the light and threw a lustrous blaze, a glowing mantle about her shoulders. She sighed, and her eyes were closed.

In days past, she might have been self conscious of the way she looked the way the creamy sundress slipped and let the side of her breast relish the morning light, or the way the breezy fabric enunciated every contour of her firm golden body and betrayed the secret shape of her thighs. But she stood unabashed in her sun dress, stretching her spine to the sky. It was her morning dress, the habit of the last priestess of Helios, and she was beautiful and glorious in the glow of the new day. Her skin prickled beneath the bold caress of the sun so her nipples stood and she let out a throaty sigh.

Around her, the streets were empty, and the houses were empty with windows like empty staring eyes. Only one other home still breathed, only one lawn kept its thick wet green, with an old cress-green Mercedes glossy with love and car wax sitting in the driveway. It was Pete and Ethel’s house, but Ethel was dead and Pete was old with a dog that limped.

The other houses stood in rows but they were empty like snail shells hollowed by the scorching sun. Inside, there was only silence.

Laura stood where she stood every morning, watching Pete’s sprinkler snick and shudder, stubbornly fighting back the native southern Californian desert. She’d watched as the first houses emptied, cheap particleboard furniture thrown bitterly with the dark-wood heirloom bureau inside the dented truck, rented by the day. ‘For Sale’ signs had gone up like dandelions in the lawns, and for months the signs creaked in the morning breeze until their shiny red letters faded beneath the bleaching sun and the grass and the dandelions died beneath them. No new people moved in.