When the apocalypse comes, Jesus asks you
to dinner. Jesus is the son of your mother’s best friend;
naturally, you cannot say no. He’s five minutes late in
picking you up, bites his thumb in supplication, and you want to
press him against the leather seats of Jesus’ dad’s
Cadillac. You’ve been on worse dates. The company’s
decent, the séx phenomenal, except there is no
séx and you’re left wondering why you
thought there would be. This is not how you pictured the end of
the world. Somewhere, a door slams. Your neighbors are filing for
divorce. Jesus walks you to your door with his hand above your
waist. He kisses you and time unravels, a ball of yarn torn
between opposing knitting needles. Crabapples. Jesus tastes like
crabapples and the final stanza of “Amazing Grace.”
God calls, asks Jesus when he’ll be home. The sky is
orange. At the end of your mother’s driveway, your
mother’s best friend’s son’s car radio narrates
the coming of the savior: This is Delilah. Avert thy mortal
eyes.
Brianna Albers,
"Delilah"
