"I'm in need of a hat," John remarked as he stepped out into the cold December morning. "And this rain, why must it constantly rain?"

Samantha had forgotten to turn off the radiator. "What did you say?" she yelled from within the house. "Nothing," John replied under his breath. "Nothing at all."

The rain, which had come and gone throughout the fall, was now a regular guest amongst the homes in this sleepy Houston suburb. With November came towering piles of leaves, sullen trees and yellowed grass; and with the new winter came a moist blast of frosty air, suffocating in its breadth. Trying to make sense of the monotone haze, John looked up at a bird sitting atop a power line.

"Do you think he is lost?" John asked. "What is with you?" Samantha replied. "Seems like your mind is always somewhere else these days. Come on, we have a class to get to."

"Fuck class!" John screamed.

"What is this class going to teach us that this bird can't? Every semester we sit in those plastic chairs, hoping to fill our brains with knowledge that someday might help us. That bird has never taken a class, and yet it just *knows* what to do every year. No one tells it, it just follows instinct and intuition. It responds to what's happening around it. It just lives."

Samantha looked at John for a few moments, then looked at her watch.

"Well, we're late now." she said.

As they backed out of the driveway, John looked questioningly at his home. The bush he and Samantha had planted together-- hand over hand, the blending of pale and forest green garden gloves like a merging of cells-- now lay dead in a scene of brittle sticks and undernourished soil. "What has become of us?" John said quietly. Samantha, now fully immersed in a dangerous dance of driving and make-up application, did not offer a reply.

"WHAT HAS BECOME OF US!?" John now yelled, as he released his seatbelt and reached for the door handle. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Samantha shrieked. "JOHN!"

It was too late.

John had lept from the car and was performing a perfect tuck and roll and was hurling himself down the grassy embankment. All of his years as a professional gymnast had paid off. Even though she was angry at John's erratic behavior, she had to admit that his execution from the car had been flawless.

"5.0", Samantha muttered under her breath, despite her annoyance.

Samantha quickly stopped the car and ran over to John, who had come to a stop at the end of the hill.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!" she shouted, her voice shaking from a cocktail of anger, fear, and relief.

John sat on the ground, looking defeated. He glanced up at her quietly answered, "We're doomed...we are all going to die."

"Oh grow up John" she annoyed as she grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back toward the car.

"With you it's always 'we're gonna die this' or 'the little bird told me that'. When are you going to just learn to live with the fact that we live in the real world?"

John jerked his arm out of Samantha's grasp. There was a handprint where she had grabbed him.

"Does your mother know about us?" he asked.

This question took Samantha off guard.

"John..."

"Does she?!" he screamed over her.

"John, my mother died 3 years before I met you. You know this."

Moments of silence transpired. John looked at the grass below him as if he was looking to them to tell him something. They never did.

"Yeah", he mumbled as he walked past Samantha toward the car. "Let's just get the hell out of here."

The evening before, John had spent several hours in front of the mirror. His once brown hair, now graying and growing thin; his still pronounced cheekbones, now softened with wrinkles; his lips, brittle from the harsh winter air; all of these things reminded him of his and of humanity's fragility. It was an idea he simply couldn't escape. And at times when he was particularly consumed, his entire memory base would dissipate as his mind drifted into a post-apocalyptic haze. Now, as he again sat in the car, motionless and broken, headed to yet another senseless class in which he could barley keep alert, a single tear fell down his cheek.

"I've had it John," Samantha said quietly.

"What?" John replied.

"I've had it, I'm leaving you." The words fell from Samantha's mouth as though they had teetered on the edge of a platform for ages, destined to crumble with only the slightest gust of wind.

Samantha continued, "I want to get a divorce and I want to get it now. I'm willing to give you a final request, or the last word if you will... We can do what you would like today, but after today, I'm leaving. I've made up my mind."

There was a period of silence that seemed like a sub-compact eternity.

With a sigh of frustration, Samatha inquired:

"What do you want to do today, John?"