Mr July loomed above the laminex kitchenette, as though observing the stained faux-marble and ignoring his hosts. He heard everything they said to one another, of course he did, he was right there. He heard the bitter, whispered arguments, the empty threats and the solid silences that flew between them.
He had been on display for so long now, they had forgotten to flip to Mr August – he had heard them decide to wait, a broken calander is right, they said, every seven years. They had also forgotten about leap years, he knew. How quickly civilisation declines.
They were running out of fuel and tinned food, “How long can a man be expected to live on evaporated milk and SPAM, Linda?” She couldn’t answer him that, so instead she shrilled out about the official warnings and nuclear winters. Their arguments increased as their waistlines shrank.
She coughed, hacking black-red onto the sanitized benchtop.
He went out, into the dust-storm, leaving her behind with the thunder-claps of the locking door.
She collapsed, after six weeks.
Mr July watched her rot on the floor.