On the day two massive alien spaceships appear in orbit above Earth, two lines appear on the stick I just peed on. The lines, bold and blue, mock the happiness I thought I’d found with him. The fear simmering in my belly erupts and I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, bitter bile lingering long after I flush away breakfast.

 

I’m so screwed.

 

My phone dings, dings, dings. I thumb through Snaps, TikToks and texts from my mother asking if I’ve seen what’s going on. All I care about is Noah hasn’t checked on me. I open a news app and a split screen live feed shows two spaceships, zoomed in for detail. One vessel is battleship gray, cylindrical, with what look like warts sticking out all along its length. The other is rectangular with what a news anchor describes as retractable wings and shimmers bright green in the sun.

 

I swipe out of the news app, past all the unread messages, and text Noah. My message sits unread, unnoticed. I take a picture of the pregnancy test and send it.

 

We need to talk. Now.

 

A bubble appears. Noah’s response is characteristically brusque: Sweetwater. Be there in 20.

 

Everyone on the street is walking slower than usual, eyes locked skyward. I sneak a peek myself. The two ships, each a dark dot the size of a pencil eraser in the bluebird sky, charge toward each other in front of the pale full moon.

 

The bar is empty. Every television is on CNN; the talking heads’ voices echo off the wood paneling. Noah has planted himself in the spot he found me four months ago, the day I became the latest casualty in capitalism's everlasting pursuit of efficiency. As I sit, the bartender nods at me.

 

“The usual?”

 

“She’s not drinking today.” Noah’s voice, warm as a hug, grates on my nerves.

 

Someone on the television screams. Just like in the movies, the ships shoot at each other with lasers and swarms of alien fighters dart around in the short no man's land in between them.

 

A phone buzzing brings our attention back to the bar under our elbows. A photo of Noah’s wife, redheaded and gorgeous, glares at us.

 

“I don’t have much time.”

 

My hands clench. “You better find the time.”

 

“Really? You see what’s going on up there.”

 

I start shredding a paper coaster into tiny segments. “I know, everything’s changed. But you need to be looking here, not up there.”

 

Noah turns. His handsome face, so male with its sloped forehead and angular jaw, is wrinkled with thinning patience.

 

“I am looking down here.” He holds up his phone. “I have four people I’m responsible for, I don’t need another.”

 

“So Tuesdays in my apartment for the last four months have been your time off?”

 

He scowls. “Don’t give me that.”

 

The bartender cheers. Up on the television two massive spheres of brightness appear against the blackness of space. Circular shockwaves bathed in green light shoot out at supersonic speed. My breathing grows shallow. The news anchor’s face appears as an insert in the frame.

 

“We’ve just received word that two nuclear warheads, one from the United States, one from Russia, are striking the alien ships. Like you, we are waiting on confirmation the missiles have destroyed their targets.”

 

Noah and I watch in silence. The light clears. The ships, lasers still spewing, are unfazed by humanity. The cylindrical ship seems to be getting the upper hand; more lasers are firing from its warts than from the other ship’s wings.

 

I look down at the small pile of paper that used to be a coaster. “So this is it? The world’s ending and we’re ending.”

 

Noah’s phone starts buzzing again. Sliding into his coat, he shoves his phone in his pocket and walks toward the door.

 

“If this wasn’t going on,” he says, gesturing at the televisions, “the decision would be harder.”

 

My mind goes red. Easy? This decision is easy? I grab his empty pint glass and hurl it. It shatters against the center of his back and he stumbles in a flurry of indignant curses. He turns around, fists at the ready. Instead of charging, he smirks.

 

“You’re not worth the effort.”

 

I climb off the barstool. “Why, you—”

 

The door closes behind Noah. Around me the televisions cut away from the battle in the sky to something new. Somewhere in Central Asia one of the alien fighters has crashed and is on fire. Its occupant, snakelike and purple as a bruise, roars as it emerges from the blue-tinted flame. Tears stream down and bracket my nose. I roar with the alien, screaming until my voice fades. I look at the television. The alien slumps against the hull of its ship, dead.

 

I run onto the street, joining dozens of others who are scrambling to cars, to houses, anywhere. My apartment is quiet when I return, the chaos outside muffled by closed windows and my whirring mind. I rest my back against the door. The image of the alien, its sloped forehead and angular jaw offset by wide golden eyes, burns in my brain.

 

A shrill alarm goes off in my pocket. A bright red notification advises me to seek shelter, stay indoors, not to panic. I open the news app again to the live feed of the battle. The rectangular ship has a crack down its center and its wings have begun to disintegrate. I gasp when it bursts in two, white gas and blue flame erupting from the fissures. It begins to fall toward the Earth. My hand covers my belly.

 

The urge to text Noah surges. Just as I’m about to type, I reread his final curt, cold message summoning me to the bar. I frown.

 

Gotta focus on down here.

 

I swipe him away and return to the news, waiting to hear where the pieces of the alien ship are going to land.