THE DAYS THAT HE WENT OUT, HE WOULDN'T RETURN HOME UNTIL DARK. Most nights, I was already in bed with the cat curled to my belly. I watched for the single headlight to trace over the window pane, illuminating the curtain patterned with yellow flowers. The engine clicked off and he trudged up to the splintering crate we used as a front step. He opened the door quietly, careful not to wake me.

Once or twice a week, he would bring me offerings from the outside world and set them on the little table by my side of the bed. This time it was something simple, a trio of newly bloomed roses from the garden next door. The heady scent of the flowers, rich with summer, intermingled with the cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes ingrained in his clothes.

"You're awake," he said, sitting down on the bed beside me and patting the cat.

"I can't sleep till you get home," I admitted.

"I'm sorry I was late."

"You say that every time."

"I'll try to get back earlier."

His hand lighted onto my head, combing his fingers through my hair before pressing a kiss to my temple.

"It's okay."

On the mornings that he didn't venture beyond the boundaries of our tiny world, we didn't bother getting out of bed till late. There was no point. Nothing to do, but lay there with my head on his chest, listening to his heart and the tick of the battery powered box fan in the window.

We never said it aloud, but it was unspoken knowledge that we were reminding ourselves that we weren't alone. The intimacy of our companionship was as vital to survival as food or shelter. We still had each other, even if we were only two people who had meant nothing to each other before all hell had broken loose.

"My dad always knew this would happen," he explained, interlocking our fingers and studying them as he recalled the memory. "Feels like I'm talking about a past life..."

I shifted, adjusting my head where it lay in the crook of his arm. "Me too. That's why I usually don't. I don't really know who I am anymore."

"My dad, he raised me to be the person I am now. For a time like this. He was the one who had all these things ready for Doom's Day. The weapons, the supplies, canned goods. And he isn't even here anymore to use them."

"But you are. That would have made him happy to know. That you are still alive."

He rested the scruffy edge of his chin against my forehead. "He probably wouldn't know what to think of our life here."

"This odd state of domesticity, you mean?"

He scoffed. "Yeah, that."

"My grandmother would have been appalled. Me setting up house with a man, but no wedding ring. Regardless of the Apocalypse." I gave a rueful laugh.

He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my bare finger. "You don't need one. We don't need one."

"I suppose not."

"...would you like one? I mean, we don't have someone to say the words over us or anything-"

"No." I shook my head. I tangled my arms around his torso and buried my face in the warmth, the realness, of his skin. "No. No. We don't need it. You're right."

"Okay, okay." he murmured, holding me close as though he could sense the tears brimming inside me, threatening to overflow. "We don't need a ring. This is enough."

I thought of the destruction beyond Silver Gardens; the loss of life and deserted cities. 

"This is more than enough."

Some nights, he'd stomp into the trailer. Tossing his boots into a corner of the kitchen, he'd peel off his sweat stained t-shirt, then fall into bed in his jeans. Sometimes he'd cry softly after his head hit the pillow, but I knew better than to say anything.

I wanted to be comforted when I was sad. He wanted to be left alone and I respected that. Our unique situation required us to learn these things about one another quickly. The next day he'd sleep hard till noon, not reaching for me, curled on his side and facing the wall.

I got used to the moan of the wind, rattling the rusted roofs of the empty trailers, stirring shifts of sand to fine gold dust in the summer sun. I was no longer disturbed by the howls of the coyotes in the forested hills beyond Silver Gardens. Loneliness became a shell, shielding me from the more violent waves of emotion.

But on the afternoons that he was home with me, I wasn't lonely. I was just living.

One morning, I woke alone in bed. The old fashioned record player he had found was playing outside. He had put on the Tommy album from The Who.

The first strains of 'The Acid Queen' played as I opened the screen door. Standing in the XXL t-shirt that served as pajamas, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned against the aluminum siding. The cat wove between my ankles, mewing for breakfast.

"What are you doing?"

He heaved a breath and stopped, leaning against the handle of the shovel. Sweat gleamed in the hollow of his throat and on his forehead below the rim of his backwards baseball cap, holding back his hair. It had gotten longer and hung in ragged curls over his ears. I had been meaning to ask if he wanted me to help him cut it.

"A garden."

"We already have a garden."

"Vegetable garden." He wiped his top lip then perched a hand on his hip, surveying his work.

"Isn't it a little late in the season?"

He shrugged and squinted towards me. "Worth a shot."

It was good to see him building something, creating instead of picking at the carcass of our dead society. It was good for him. I nodded and gave a faint smile.

"Yeah, it is."

He had built us an outdoor shower after the second week. It hung behind the shed wall for privacy, which was necessary when we'd first arrived, but certainly not anymore. It was only a bucket and pulley system, but I was more thankful for it than I could say. Also for the bottles of Dollar Store shampoo that he brought home with him.

After washing up, he came back inside around noon. A pot of canned chili simmered in the dutch oven as I chopped a cucumber. A double wide on the western side of the park had a thriving vegetable garden. We had more tomatoes and cucumbers than we knew what to do with. A pumpkin patch would be ready for harvest come October, though there was no way of knowing if we would still be alive by then to enjoy them.

Stopping behind me, he pressed the flat of his knuckles against my spine. His hand bloomed open then curved around my hip, pulling me to him. He rested his face against the arch of my neck and was quiet, as though collecting his thoughts.

"What's going on," I said, breaking the silence and turning towards him.

His eyes were weary, but he attempted a smile. "I have something to tell you."

My heart dropped, anticipating bad news. It was all we had known for so long. "What?"

"We have new neighbors."