"What would you do if faced with a zombie apocalypse tomorrow?"
The man the question was directed at dropped a French fry back onto his plate and looked at Heather as if she wore a straight jacket. "What do you mean, "what"?"
This time she gave him a judgmental look. "Well, just that. What would your first reaction be?"
He thought for a moment—or at least pretended to be thinking—though his expression betrayed confusion and a complete lack of grasp on the subject. "I guess I'd wake up and be glad it was just a silly dream."
A disgustingly disappointing attempt at a joke. Heather sighed, without even trying to hide her annoyance. "The check, please." She called for the waitress and thanked her as soon as the girl nimbly fulfilled her request.
"Hey, wait! Where are you going??" The man seemed more shocked than annoyed by the turn of events. Poor thing.
"What do you mean, where?" Heather mimicked his previous question. "I'm going home. I have far more interesting and meaningful things to do.
She turned her back on him and wasn't surprised that, after taking just a few steps, she could hear his angry words.
- "Crazy bitch."
At this point she was so used to the insults hurled at her that it was as if she were literally vaccinated against them.
----
"What's so hard about the question?" she asked herself yet again, while laying on her comfortable bed. "You never know what might happen to you. We live in a crazy world..."
Had the world gone mad? Or was it her, after living in it for so long? It was difficult to tell. Either way, she refused to compromise her principles and perspective. After all, they made her who she was.
For the moment, she dreamed of someone who would comprehend her question, truly grasp it, and offer at least a somewhat meaningful answer. Was that really so difficult? She wanted to believe that wasn't the case.
----
"What would you do if faced with a zombie apocalypse tomorrow?
As usual, Heather asked the question when her conversational partner least expected it. Although, to be realistic, timing didn't matter. Hardly anyone would be prepared for it.
She had memorized every tiny gesture and glance they'd ever directed at her. This one wasn't much different.
"How old did you say you were?" the man asked mockingly.
Ah, one of her 'favorite' types—the smug jerk.
"Older than your IQ," Heather replied calmly, grabbed her black-and-green backpack, and unceremoniously left the café, leaving him to pay the bill.
The asshole with a capital A, however, followed her outside and grabbed her arm with alarming force. "You think you're so witty, huh? Didn't your father teach you any manners? You stuck-up little bitch." He tightened his grip. A man who used violence against others had the nerve to talk about manners. What a joke.
"Unlike you, I'm prepared for a zombie apocalypse."
The kick to the groin left him no time to react in any way other than to slump to the ground, looking like a total martyr. You'd almost feel sorry for him.
----
Her arm still hurt when she got home. Those who resorted to physical violence were both few and, disappointingly, many. Her father might not have taught her much in the way of manners, but she owed her ability to defend herself against such scum to him. Her parents had prepared her for much more than anyone could have expected. It was quite possible an entire lifetime wouldn't be enough for her to put all her knowledge and skills to use. Today's situation was one of many that helped her rack up a significant number of points.
----
She stayed away from men for a while. Everyone needs a break from the negative emotions in their lives. Besides, it wasn't exactly fun to recover from their animalistic urges. It had been a long time since she'd been tempted to satisfy her own. Intimacy with a man with whom she couldn't carry on a conversation longer than two minutes, and one that wasn't about the same old mundane topics, to put it mildly, horrified her. It wouldn't be worth the headaches that would inevitably follow.
At work, no one knew more about her than was necessary. That's why, after all, they call it a private life. She couldn't stand the idea of people gossiping about her, especially in a place where she was trying to earn a living. Someone had to finance her book addiction, and there wasn't exactly a line of people eager to do so.
----
" 'Sex on the Beach', please." Heather ordered from the bartender, that looked way too young, but she was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
"At your service. With me, you'll find all the sex you need, babe."
Heather gave the cheeky pick-up artist a single, dismissive glance before giving him a taste of one of her well-rehearsed comebacks. "No problem, dude. How about we strip down completely naked, and I'll show you my unshaven legs?"
The man bolted as fast as a dog chasing a bone.
"Total lack of taste." Heather laughed and accepted the drink she was served with a smile. The girl looked at her awkwardly. She was most likely wondering whether what Heather said was true or not. "I wax them. So, technically, they're not shaved." She decided to explain, at which point the girl behind the bar laughed quietly and turned her attention to the other customers—her lifeline.
Wherever she went, Heather was like a museum exhibit. Like a work of art people would nod at knowingly but in reality had no idea what it was about. No one understood Harlequin either, but she'd found her Joker—her faithful companion in madness. Would Heather ever find her own Joker? Certainly didn't seem like it was going to happen in a bar on a Friday night.
----
"What are you waiting for?"
"The bus?" Heather looked at the stranger with an expression that, in itself, seemed to ask if he was up to speed on things. She didn't want to know what else he thought people might be waiting for at a bus stop.
"Uh-huh."
A clever ending to a clever conversation. She shook her head and happily boarded the bus as soon as she could. She took her seat and prayed to all the gods she didn't believe in that the seat next to her would remain empty. If not, at least let the person be of her gender or have the decency to respect one's personal space.
She had finally decided to escape her usual daily routine for a while. To use her free weekend for something more than cleaning the apartment and planning a menu for the coming week. Not that she wouldn't have to do those things anyway, but it's a whole different story to embark on a little adventure before diving back into the reality of everyday life. Especially when that adventure begins with a panting, obviously in a hurry, older woman—most likely a mother, judging by her animated phone conversation—who, with a loud sigh, collapses on the seat next to Heather. "Excuse me," she says to her five minutes later, when the hot phone leaves her ear.
"No problem," Heather replies briefly and turns her full attention to the window on her left.
A clear hint, in her opinion, that she isn't a big fan of conversations while traveling. Not quite so clear to her older companion, as it turns out. She talks and talks—about her life and experiences, about her entire existence from A to Z. Heather wishes she could fly. Then any kind of transportation or interaction with people would be completely unnecessary. Unless, of course, someone shot her to hang her as a trophy on their wall or locked her up in a gloomy lab to study her DNA and conduct all sorts of dubious experiments. There was no such thing as complete and unfettered freedom.
"...And then my son smiled—such a wide smile, you could practically eat him up!"
Heather switched back to "listener" mode and acted out one of those understanding smiles, which the woman interpreted exactly as expected.
Very soon, the women parted ways. Heather wondered where she should go first. She took out her list and analyzed it carefully. As expected, the thought of visiting the grand library—once the city's greatest pride—was too tempting to even consider going anywhere else. And yet, one is supposed to save the best for last.
This time she flatly refused to take any form of transportation and set off along a road less traveled leading to the old part of town. It was a miracle that they hadn't turned the place into a tourist attraction, a money-making machine. Perhaps they didn't believe in the success of such a scheme. What a pity. Few people truly understood the value of these places, which exuded the past. And those who did realize it were either advanced in age or had already passed away.
The moment she stepped in front of the building, Heather breathed in the peaceful atmosphere. Strangely, she was greeted at the entrance by a young man who, at first glance, looked no older than twenty-eight. His appearance and presence left Heather feeling skeptical, but she decided against judging him too harshly before they had even spoken. He smiled warmly and genuinely as he led her inside. The place was magical. It housed books hundreds of years old, most of them in surprisingly good condition. Her young companion added to the magic; he spoke with such passion that Heather didn't even realize how much his stories had captivated her.
A few hours later, the young man suggested they sit on a small stone bench at the top of the steps leading to the library entrance. She agreed without even thinking twice. One question was nagging at her, but she was afraid to ask it, lest she accidentally break the spell.
"Is there something bothering you?" the boy asked with concern.
"Actually, yes." "Heather admitted reluctantly, unable to resist his impeccable manners and character. "I want to ask you something."
"Go ahead," he smiled encouragingly.
Heather swallowed and let the words roll off her lips. "What would you do if faced with a zombie apocalypse tomorrow?
The boy looked at her, confused. "What's a zombie?"
That answer Heather did not expect. She wondered if it was even possible for someone not to know what a zombie was.
"A zombie is…" She tried to condense the facts into a short sentence that would explain things as accurately as possible. "…a living dead person who has completely lost their humanity and acts on an impulse to kill."
The boy pondered her words. "I guess first and foremost would be to find a safe shelter and stock up on supplies."
Heather's jaw dropped comically. He… didn't laugh… didn't mock her… didn't look at her like she'd escaped from a mental institution. He thought seriously and gave the best and most logical answer one could expect from him. Especially since he didn't even know the meaning of the word zombie before she gave him a concise explanation.
"Is everything okay?" he asked her, and Heather finally decided to shut her mouth and recover from the momentary shock.
"Everything's… actually, it's wonderful," she replied briefly, her face lighting up with the happiest smile she'd ever given anyone. Her Joker existed! "What… what's your name?" Heather dared to ask.
"Jean." He took her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you… Heather."
"How… do you know my name?" She looked at him with feigned fear but didn't pull her hand away.
She had the feeling that if she let go of him, something would happen. She wasn't sure what, but her insides knotted in a wave of panic. She interlaced their fingers and gazed for a long time at his unreal, warm, sunny smile until the features of his face faded and vanished, as if scattered by the wind. A sharp pain pierced Heather's heart. Had she imagined all of this? His entire existence? But the sensation of his touch, of his fingers in hers, was still just as clear.
She hurried back to the library and tripped over a pile of shattered stone slabs. She yelped loudly when her knee struck one of them. As soon as she looked ahead, her eyes filled with tears. The bookshelves had been destroyed. Torn pages and piles of scattered books lay on the floor, buried in dust. Everything lay in ruins. Everything had gone with him. Suddenly, it all became crystal clear to her.
"So you were a ghost from the past…" A few more tears rolled down her cheeks. "It was nice knowing you, Jean… My dear Joker…"