Maybe Next Time

It's late at night and the coffee is gone. Rubbing an eye, I peer at the clock and then Mount Hayden, framed by the open window. The frogs are loud, so loud in this damned heat, but the mountain doesn't mind. It snores contently--no wait, that's my husband; the mountain squats quietly over the indigo horizon.

There's violence everywhere--the news is on, but then a ghastly green light splashes over Mount Hayden. Through the window with a craned neck, what I see can't be what I really see.

But it is.

"No civilization here!" I call out from below. "But feel free to try again in about a hundred years!"

Slowly, the green light fades and I turn back to the television. Over the gentle, habitual flick of my lighter, the plastic-faced anchor assures me that this time the cease-fire will last.

But most of us know that it won't.