Saturday's Storyteller: "The meteor was coming straight for us, and I still couldn't find my back massager."

by Belinda Roddie

The meteor was coming straight for us, and I still couldn't find my back massager. My wife thought I was crazy for looking.

"We're all about to die," she screeched from the bed, where she was, all too appropriately, bare-ass naked, "and all you can think about is a hunk of plastic?!"

"That hunk of plastic is the only thing that gets my back to stop spazzing!" I snapped back.

"And?!"

"And I am not dying a la giant burning rock with back spasms!"

"Oh, for the love of - I'll give you a back massage!" my wife barked. "It'll be the last thing I do for you in this mortal life!"

I looked at her, blinked, and threw up my hands. "You're not good at back massages, Michelle."

My wife looked ready to slap me, but she was then distracted by the TV, which was still blaring the news of our imminent doom. We knew that everything now was recorded and on loop; the news anchors had all left, presumably to find their families, and the countdown clock could be located at the bottom of the screen. Sixteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds now. Thirty-six. Thirty-five.

"Okay, look," I groaned. "If I don't find the massager in five minutes, I'll come back, and we can cuddle until the earth implodes around us. Sound good?"

"Can meteors do that?"

I blinked. "Do what?"

"Make things implode?"

I literally had no time for this. My wife couldn't accuse me of being frivolous; she was analyzing things like the nerd she was, and I had a search to take on! I turned away from her then and bounded downstairs, my back and shoulders complaining each physical step I took.

The massager had been missing for three days now, and with the impending apocalypse looming over us, I felt more and more desperate to have it. In the kitchen, Sammy, our cat, was yowling at his half full bowl of food. Poor furry thing. He didn't have the knowledge of what was to come, instead prioritizing his concerns over portions. Perhaps, however, he had the right mindset and was better off for it. Still, weren't cats usually pretty keen on death and deadly situations? I was becoming like Michelle - too analytical. I rummaged through a couple drawers in the living room, then checked the bathroom and closet. Nothing.

I kept to my word. I made my way back up to the bedroom, expecting my wife to be glaring at me. She wasn't. Instead, she was rolled on her side, facing the wall. She had turned off the TV. I sidled up next to her, feeling her warm body against my chest. The shaking from her proved to me that she was crying.

For the last ten minutes of our existence, I was the one giving Michelle a massage.

This week's prompt was provided by Nic Smith.