The waiters eye our tables wearily, clearly unhappy with the overtime we're demanding. We must look strange, an sweaty cast in full makeup at 11:30 at night, singing and screaming unrecognizable quotes over our food and ice cream. I feel at home here. In the back of the room, the devil stands up, his pointed eyebrows now comically smudged, and announces that we have an hour left to live before judgment day.
Another spoonful of ice cream, the slow melt of chocolate and peanut butter over vanilla. Half an hour left. We all laugh, tempting fate, but under tables, some hands are grasped. There's a breath of uneasy fear under the mocking. But as for myself, I am calm. I am happy. Twenty minutes left. I am happy. Fifteen minutes left, and I realize that even if we do die, this is exactly where I'd want to be. High on life, filled with ice cream, surrounded by friends, really living. I am living.
Maybe the rapture has already happened. Maybe nobody is really good, or nobody really believes. After all, we're plagued by endless sins and corruptions and disasters. Maybe our nature to doubt and question and investigate has already doomed us. And so we are doomed to the imperfection of life.
And in the hellish midst of rapture, I am happy.
I just want to say, that this is beautiful.
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