They lay there on the flat rooftop in their yoga pants on their yoga mats. The slaughter had begun down in the streets, but they were too high up to hear the screams.
There are two sorts of people, she said, Here we are, now entertain us people, and here we are now, entertain us people.
There are two sorts of people, he said, people who dislocate their hips, and people who don’t.
There are two sorts of people, she said. People who are allergic to gluten, and people who are not allergic to gluten.
There are two sorts of people, he said. People who can do the Tree pose, and people who can’t.
He meant it as a self-deprecating joke, because a few minutes earlier he had looked like a guy… like a guy jumping around on one foot with his hands in the air.
They went on like this for a while.
There are four sorts of people, she said: a mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, a libido.
Oh, look at the time, she said. She pointed towards a big digital clock on a bank across the street. The clock was on fire, with flames six feet high. It told no time.
I should be getting home to my husband, she said.
Me too, he said. To my husbandry, I mean.
Yeah, yeah, she said.
The slaughter was all the fault of the Make a Wish Foundation. A sick little kid had wished to be the last person alive on Earth, so they were working on it.