An hour after she leaves, I am climbing the walls. What do I do? Am I really supposed to look for jobs? Would anyone seriously consider a resume from someone who’s applying for jobs in the middle of an alien invasion? How can I watch the news alone without her dry cracks? I have all these thoughts in my head. If Galiene was here, I’d be telling her about them. I try telling myself, but I start to feel like a mental patient.
Finally, I decide to go on a walk.
The streets are largely empty. People are out and about, but afraid to stay too long in the open. They stick close to buildings. They scuttle back and forth between buildings, crossing streets quickly, uncertain, anxious.
The military is everywhere. Trucks, convoys, foot soldiers positioned down the street, down every street. At the corner of Broadway and Belmont sits a tank. It isn’t the first time in my life that I’ve seen a tank—at a museum or an air show or something—but I don’t think I ever realized how big they were. You’ve got to ask yourself, where does the army keep this stuff? The tank takes up most of both sides of the street, and part of the sidewalk. No matter where they’re stationed, they’re all on battle mode: fingers on the trigger, pointing toward the sky.
At this rate, you could almost not blame the aliens for not coming out. If I didn’t live with Galiene, I wouldn’t, either.