He released a grateful sigh when he saw the burning flash of the comet; he finished washing his hands before he gave it any thought. After all, there was no need to rush. The comet had smashed into earth just on time.

His clothing was already arranged on his messy bed – an industrial pair of boots to sift through the torrential bits of destruction outside, a white wrinkled button up that fit him a bit too loosely (of which was newly covered in a sticky sheen of an explosion), a shiny pair of navy slacks that surely wouldn’t make it to the end of today, a thick set of black woolen socks which had been a gift (it was warm outside now, but it was the dead of winter and it would likely snow soon), a black belt that he had stolen from his deadbeat father, and a few cheap golden rings that he liked to spin ceaselessly around his own fingers (one of which had fallen off the bed in the blast, rolling away to promptly be buried beneath rubble).

There wasn’t much privacy in his bedroom, now. There was no longer a west wall, and he could see his roof from the inside of his home. He ran a clean hand through his greasy hair a few times, patting his hair down. Today was the day.

He got dressed in the manner that he did most days: slowly. His scratched-up and scabbed-up hands tucked his shirt carefully into his pants, threaded the loop of his belt, and tied his boots with precision. He turned his blank gaze to watch a home that was burning besides his own, its interior crackling and caving in within minutes.

Outside, the sky was a bloody shade of red. Shards of glass and ash crunched beneath his heavy boots as he ventured out into the ruined world. He carefully stepped over a blackened plank, staring curiously at it to try and figure out which part of his suburban home it came from. It didn't matter.

His boots sank into the newly dried dirt, blanketed with the burnt reminiscences of massive weeds that once littered his lawn. His nose scrunched up as a particularly violent waft of smoke came his way, making his dull eyes water at their edges. Someone screamed in the distance.

At the end of his driveway sat one car with all the windows blown out and three people, dressed in a similar desperate fashion to himself.

The first was a man who had remembered to store his white button-up somewhere where the fallout debris wouldn’t get to it.

The second was a woman who bought her first pair of silhouettes for this very occasion.

The third was –

“You were wrong,” the third man yelled, pointing a jabby finger towards him. At this noise, people in surrounding homes let out hopeful screams. They were ignored.

He spun a golden ring around his index finger then bit a nail. “I was wrong by two minutes. Don’t get your tits in a twist.”

“Three years of preparing for this and this is what you have to show for it?” he accused again. “Three years of your shitty little backyard astronomy club and your prediction is off by two minutes?”

Adeline shoved in, groaning “I thought we were here to celebrate."

“We are!” the first man interjected.

“Ok,” he continued, still spinning his rings, “Then why is Silvio dicking me around over a hundred and twenty seconds?"

Silvio buried his face in his hands and regretfully looked at a crumbling household beside the group.

Adeline continued, gesturing towards the man at the head of the pitiful and cracked driveway, “Well, go on then.”

He led the group, as he did every Tuesday night at 9:48 P.M., to his backyard. Normally there was a patch of luscious grass to plant themselves on, but the dirt would be alright for the remainder of their meetings. His neighbor’s house was still sending the occasional thick billow of smoke towards the group, but most of it had crumbled into nothing and had begun to sizzle out.

“As our good friend pointed out,” he explained, “we were two minutes off in our prediction. Given we were using amateur quality telescopes, I think this is pretty good.” He loosely turned to Silvio. “Frankly, I don’t understand the obsession with timeliness when it comes to the end of the world. I would have assumed a single date was at least marginally better than a complete lack of knowledge.”

Silvio stayed silent, pushing around shards of glass with his feet with a guilty glint in his eyes. Adeline fiddled with her necklace. The neighborhood crackled.

His bleak eyes searched the faces around him for something other the resigned apathy with a certain animalistic desperation. There was none to be found.

“I’m gonna grab us something to drink, guys," he said awkwardly, "The next one should be hitting in about an hour or so.”

At this, the host of the group went back into what was left in his home and began to scavenge his fridge. Footsteps crunched the rubble behind him.

“Silvio,” he said, not looking up from the peach vodka he was studying, “Even if we had told them, they wouldn’t have believed us.”

“Someone would have. Do you seriously want to spend your final moments drunk as shit?”

Outside, Adeline and the man watched the world burn.

“Just a little something, nothing too excessive.”

He unscrewed the pink bottle with some trouble, his face contorting with disgust and surprise as he took a fat swig. Silvio held out his hands and caught it with a single hand.

“Where will the next one hit?” Silvio asked.

Now, the man was comfortably holding a can of chilled Dr. Pepper, gratefully drinking from it.

“It doesn’t matter. I didn’t even care to figure it out.”

“Guys!” Adeline yelled, “There’s another one coming – get out here and see this!”

Silvio stayed put, but the man rushed out just in time to see a fat streak of light cross the sky, blossoming into a violent explosion near the horizon.

“You were wrong again,” she laughed.

“I guess I was.”

Smoke billowed into the sky and the alcohol burned on his tongue. It was making his eyes water. He swiped his hand on his shirt, living a disastrous trail of soot in its wake. Behind them, Silvio began to drink the cheap vodka.

“Maybe you were wrong about them all,” she continued. “Maybe there won’t be enough to destroy earth.”

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “Yeah, maybe.”