Getting Back Together for the End of the World

(ANNIE’s HOUSE.  ANNIE is packing things.  PETER enters.)

PETER:  Annie?

                (She turns around.)

ANNIE:  Peter?

PETER:  Hi.

ANNIE:  Hi.

PETER:  I never gave you back the key.

ANNIE:  The—what?

PETER:  The key.  To the apartment.  I never—uh—I never gave it back to you, so…That’s how I…got in.

ANNIE:  What are you doing here?

PETER:  I, uh, there’s a comet.

ANNIE:  Right.

PETER:  I mean, there might be a comet…coming…to Earth.

ANNIE:  Yeah, I know.  Today or tomorrow.

PETER:  (Over-lapping on ‘or tomorrow.’)  --or tomorrow.  Yeah.  I mean, if it does, you know, come, we’re all going to…die.

ANNIE:  Yeah.

PETER:  So I was thinking…

ANNIE:  Yeah?

PETER:  That maybe we should get back together?

                (A beat.)

ANNIE:  Are you being serious?

PETER:  Yeah.  I mean, I didn’t come here to tell you a joke or anything.

ANNIE:  We could have—hours—left on Earth.  And you came here to get back together with me after not speaking to me for three months?

                (A beat.)

PETER:  I e-mailed you a few times.

ANNIE:  I didn’t get any e-mails.

PETER:  Um…maybe I didn’t?

ANNIE:  I guess I’m confused.

PETER:  Well, it’s…uh…it’s simple, really, sort of.  I don’t want to, uh, die alone?

ANNIE:  Oh.

PETER:  So—here I am.  I mean, I could try finding someone else to die with, but time’s kind of—of the essence, and uh, I called the girlfriend that I had before you but it turns out she got married and had kids and it’s all like ahhhhhhhh you know?  What happened?  What did I do with my life?  I have nobody.  I have nothing.  I don’t even have a pet.  And I’m sitting alone in this, like, quote-unquote bachelor pad, feeling so…lonely.  And I started thinking that I should be missing someone.  Like, who do I miss, and I thought—Annie.  I miss Annie.  I miss you so much.

ANNIE:  But you only started feeling that way when you found out you might be dying.

PETER:  Right.  Before that I really didn’t think about you much at all.

ANNIE:  Have you ever considered not saying the exact truth all the time?  I mean, it’s refreshing in a—I can’t believe I dated you for two years—kind of way, but there’s also just this unbelievable—like, who are you?  What are you doing here?

PETER:  I’m a dick.  I know I’m a dick.  But come on, do you have anyone—right now, I mean?

ANNIE:  No.  I don’t.

PETER:  Well, there you go.  Better to die with somebody right?  And we know each other.  We loved each other.  We lived together.  That’s something, right?

ANNIE:  And what if the comet doesn’t hit us?  Then what?  We just—break up again?

PETER:  No, I mean…Uh…not…Well…

ANNIE:  I’ll tell you what, Peter.  I’ll make you a deal.  We can get back together, but you owe me a year.

PETER:  A year?

ANNIE:  One year.  Unless the comet hits and we die.  Then you don’t owe me anything.  But if it doesn’t hit, you have to stick around for a year no matter what.

PETER:  A year’s a long time.

ANNIE:  Not as long as Eternity.  And I think if you die alone there’s a good chance you could spend the rest of time alone anyway depending on what your personal belief system is.

PETER:  Really?

ANNIE:  Think about it, Peter.  There’s a chance that shitty bachelor pad of yours might be the only thing you see until the Universe expands and falls in upon itself.

PETER:  You’ve gotten really creepy since we broke up.

ANNIE:  So what’s it going to be?

PETER:  Uh…I guess I’ll choose…you?

                (A beat.  ANNIE laughs.  It’s a short bark of a laugh.)

ANNIE:  Get out.

PETER:  What?

ANNIE:  Get out, go.  I was screwing with you.  I was never going to get back together with you.  Not even for an hour.  Not even if it means I’m alone when the world ends.  Not a chance.

PETER:  But you said—

ANNIE:  You know, Peter, I thought the same thing you did when I found out there was a chance we were all going to die.  I thought, Oh God, I’m alone.  I’m going to die alone.  My worst fear.  And then I thought—Why is that my worst fear?  Shouldn’t my worst fear be that I would die unhappy?  Or unfulfilled?  Trapped in some awful situation that I should have gotten myself out of years ago?  Compared to the alternatives, dying alone really didn’t seem that bad.  It’s not like I’m going to endure months of illness and depletion.  A comet will hit, or it won’t, and when it does, or doesn’t, I’ll either die right away or I’ll have a whole life ahead of me to make something out of myself that has absolutely nothing to do with you.  I mean, it’s not an ideal set of circumstances but it’s not the worst, you know?  Not at all really.

PETER:  So…you don’t want to get back together?

ANNIE:  You know, I’m standing here looking at you, and I’m trying to figure out if at some point I was attracted to your stupidity.  Like, was it endearing in some way?  Because right now, it’s just silly.  Everything’s just so silly.  Those two years together?  Silly.  Me crying all those nights because you left?  Absurd.  Fantasizing about this moment—when you’d come crawling back—as if it would be some kind of victory—Ridiculous.  Thank goodness the Apocalypse brings with it a glorious sense of…perspective.

PETER:  But I love you.

ANNIE:  No, you don’t.

PETER:  No, I do.

ANNIE:  Maybe you do.  But Peter, you can love anybody if you force yourself to.  I could love a potato chip if I lived with it for two years and it occasionally gave me an orgasm.

PETER:  Occasionally?

ANNIE:  It doesn’t really mean anything unless there’s an element of it…just happening, you know?  Some organic wonder.  Some mixture of timing and luck.  You and I met at a bar, we had sex on our second date, and then you just moved in.  It was all so clump clump clump predictable.  I don’t want that to happen next time.

PETER:  Next time.

ANNIE:  I’m packing to go to Europe.  I’m going to walk around the continent until I meet my soulmate.  If that doesn’t work, I’m going to try Asia, but something tells me Norway is going to be my sweet spot.

PETER:  But that could take your whole life.

ANNIE:  So what?  I mean, really, so what?  Everybody always told me ‘Settle, settle, settle.  Be practical.  Get comfortable.  Lead a reasonable life.’  Now what?  I’m going to die and the wildest memory I have is the one of you and I breaking down on the way to New Hampshire to stay at the awful cabin your uncle owns, waiting three hours for a tow truck, only to get there and find out the entire place was infested with rats.  I’m sorry, but I need to try and do a little bit better than that.  If the world doesn’t end, I’m not spending one more second being boring.

PETER:  So you…settled for me?

ANNIE:  Yes, didn’t you settle for me?

PETER:  I don’t know.  God, these questions are like—I mean, what were we supposed to do?  Nobody said the world was going to end.

ANNIE:  Nobody promised that it wasn’t.

PETER:  So we were supposed to do what you’re going to do?  Roam around the entire planet looking for somebody who might not even exist hoping you find them and then if you die you’re what?  A poet or something?  Oh, but if you meet somebody and say, ‘Okay, you’re good enough, this’ll work unless I get to the point where I can’t even stand looking at you anymore’ then you’ve settled?  Then you should feel bad?  Then your life was wasted?  That’s bullshit!

ANNIE:  THIS IS LIFE WE’RE TALKING ABOUT, PETER!  THIS ISN’T A TRUE OR FALSE QUESTION ON A SCANTRON TEST!

PETER:  CAN’T WE JUST HOOK UP ONE MORE TIME BEFORE WE EXPLODE?

ANNIE:  YES!  No!  Jesus, what am I saying?  No, Peter, that would be a bad idea.

PETER:  Annie—

ANNIE:  I called a cab to take me to the airport.  I was going to drive but I could be gone forever, and the parking rates are insane.

PETER:  Annie—

ANNIE:  You can stay here if you want.  There’s yogurt in the fridge.  It’s probably bad but it’s in there.  I’ll be at the airport until they know how things are going to go down.  It might take a few days.  I think I’ll go to the Chili’s and flirt with somebody.  That oughta be fun.

PETER:  Can I come with you?

                (A beat.)

ANNIE:  Peter—

PETER:  Not as like, a boyfriend, but as like—I want to find somebody too.  Like in Norway, or whatever.

ANNIE:  I don’t think this is a good idea.

PETER:  Why not?  You can do your own thing.  I don’t care.  I just don’t want to sit in this house and wait for something to happen that’s never going to happen.  Or might happen.  I don’t even want to wait on something maybe happening anymore.  I want to make something happen.  Myself.  You know?

ANNIE:  You don’t have any luggage.

PETER:  So?

ANNIE:  You’re wearing flip flops.

PETER:  And?

ANNIE:  Do you even have underwear on?

PETER:  Look are we baking a cake or going to Europe?

ANNIE:  Peter—

PETER:  If you don’t let me go, I’ll just go anyway.  I’ll get on the same plane as you, or the next plane, and I’ll find you and I’ll follow you wherever you go.  And if I don’t meet anybody and you don’t meet anybody, I’ll keep asking you to get together until we either find people we like better or decide to just like each other.  Or die.  That could happen too.

                (A beat.)

ANNIE:  Okay.

PETER:  Okay?

ANNIE:  Okay.  But you have to buy underwear at the airport.  A lot of underwear.

PETER:  Deal.

ANNIE:  Imagine if after all this, we just wound up together?

PETER:  That would be some pretty cool organic shit, right?

ANNIE:  Yeah, it would be.  It would be a pretty great story.

PETER:  So this is the beginning then?

ANNIE:  Yeah.  I guess it is.

                (They exit.)

Lights