They sat, staring and smiling at each other as an indian summer storm tried to drown their shambling city. Naara sat cross-legged on the under stuffed, salvaged, tapioca leather couch. Her clock hand fingers toyed gently with the african fertility charm ironically slung between her breasts. Her perfume was loving and invasive, licking Peter's nostrils like a clean, cloying cat. She asked, "So, we're really going to do this, huh?" The half dozen stark lights in Peter's apartment flickered.
In Windsor, Canada, lightning struck a casino; sparks cascaded as if from a sloppy welder.
A moment later, thunder set the apartment's monastic windows and Naara's tiny teeth rattling. The lights, hanging on laughably long and patchy extension cords, went out.
Neither Naara nor Peter cared about the sudden immersion.
Peter grinned, invisible. Rather than answer, he distracted himself by trying to examine his knotty knuckles in the dark.
Naara poked Peter's chest, scooted closer to him. "I'll take that as a yes then." She said. She shivered. She asked, "Why is it that no matter what season it is, your apartment is always, always frigid?"
John's smile faltered momentarily. He kept staring at his cauled, eldritch finger joints.
"No, seriously, though. Why so cold?" Naara asked.
More lightning and sparks from another high rise like a gigantic, infinitely modern lighter, bereft of fuel. More thunder, then car alarms. Then, all of Detroit went dark.
His grin returned, Peter lurched onto Naara like a fish's last flop. His breath smelled like a river with an algae bloom. His finger tips were rough, under her t-shirt, digging at her hips. He whispered, teeth to her right ear: "So I don't rot."