Zimmermann's Furniture

**There is an allusion to suicide in this story**

The end of the world had been one month, 15 days, and seven hours ago; regardless Otto’s GE wood grain radio clock buzzed at exactly six each morning. He sat up, clicked off the alarm, then turned it back on for tomorrow. He swung his legs out of bed and slid his feet into the waiting slippers. Before standing he raised his arms in a stretch and felt the satisfying clicks and pops of his body transitioning out of sleep into waking.

He twisted at the waist—five rotations to each side—rolled his neck, then searched for humanity. His arthritic finger, knuckles bulging, switched on the radio feature and found the dial on the side of the clock. He turned the knob, watching the small red line make its slow journey from number 88 to 108 then back again. He flipped to AM and repeated the process. Nothing but static.

No matter. Time to start the day.

The mattress squeaked as he stood and he reached to touch his toes once, twice, three times. Then he made his bed; smoothing each sheet and blanket to straighten away imperfections before adding the next layer. The decorative pillows Ingrid had insisted upon were transferred from the rocking chair in the corner, to line up across the headboard like soldiers standing at attention decorated with lace medals of valor and frothing ruffled uniforms.

Their small flat above the shop was trapped in time; olive green kitchen with rooster themed décor, a burnt orange couch dividing the tiny dining and living space where more prim pillows sat ready for their orders.

Ingrid’s meticulous cross stitching hung along each wall and Otto tenderly touched the one depicting two swans within a crimson heart. Then he tapped the frame to straighten it back into place.

Thank goodness Ingrid had died five years ago. She would have hated Armageddon. He could picture her frowning with a tsk and trying to sweep up the ash, crunching glass, and bits of rubble that stretched to the horizon. He allowed himself a small smile before continuing to the bathroom.

The tap sputtered and coughed but spit forth a thin stream of water tinted brown. The utilities continued to function, if not to Otto’s standards, at least on a basic level.

He carefully fished his dentures from where they floated in their glass and slid them into place with a squelching suction. He continued his morning with a sponge bath, combed his sparse hair, and selected a worn and wilted shirt, tie, and a three‑button single‑breasted jacket. The lines around his mouth deepened in a frown as he folded a stained pocket square. Without starch, bleach, or existing dry cleaners, his sharp suit had become blurred around the edges.

Otto peered out the upstairs window. He squinted into the distance at the deep red that was the new sun. It gave the world an eerie glow but was still enough to see by. Once he thought he had spotted a horse, or perhaps two people stumbling together outlined in the fiery haze, but if it had been another living creature, it had not deemed to visit Zimmermann’s Furniture.

After confirming no new developments haunted his street, he shuffled over to the pantry and scanned the lines of cans. His hand hovered over the refried beans but gravitated to the mandarin oranges in their own juice. It was indulgent, but his sweet tooth won out.

He peeled back the tin lid with a hand crank can opener then poured the orange squishy mess into a bowl Ingrid had made in her ceramics class. It was pale blue with white daisies and what she had said was meant to be a line of doves, but Otto thought it looked like ants crawling up the side. God, he missed her.

While he washed the single bowl and single spoon, the lights flickered and the water spat. He paused until things righted themselves before drying off each item and placing them back into their spot next to his collection of shelf stable foods.

Everything in the flat creaked, including Otto. He could no longer be sure if it was the stairs or his knees as he made his way down to the shop. The handrail groaned with the amount of weight he had to pile upon it in order to keep his balance. One day it would jerk clear of the wall and perhaps he would tumble the rest of the way down. Would that be how it happened? Surviving the end of days only to break his neck on the landing?

He often considered doing it himself. There were enough rattling bottles behind the mirror to euthanize an elephant, let alone a feeble old man. There was a neatness to the idea. A level of control that was difficult to resist. Despite the temptation, he could never bring himself to follow through. If he was gone, who would eat out of Ingrid’s bowl? Who would open the shop each morning?

He started with the cash register. It had been old fashioned when he was young, but now it had a charm to it that old things gain if they hold on long enough. The bell dinged and the woosh of the drawer woke him better than a cup of coffee. Still sitting at $136.25, as it had been on the day the world ended, but best count to make sure.

Once the bills were replaced in their slots and the coins sorted back into their scooped sections, Otto made his way over to the sale signs. The last customer had been over a two months ago and he had since become quite generous with the discounts. He tapped the sharpie on his chin and studied the 25% off scrawled on a neon green piece of posterboard. The sign was taped to a coffee table with beautiful, clawed legs and swirling golden designs cradling the tempered glass top. He sighed and scribbled through the 25 before writing 26. Such a shame good craftmanship could no longer garner its worth.

Otto then moved to the door. He flipped the plastic Closed sign to Open, clicked the lock, and stepped outside. He grunted as he cranked open the metal grating that prevented forced entry into his furniture shop. One couldn’t be too careful.

Returning to the counter, he selected a newspaper from the stack of old publications, flipping through on the hunt for unread articles. Ingrid had a stack of novels on her bedside table, but he didn’t have a taste for fantastic imaginings.

The light brightened, painting the backs of couches in pinks and oranges, outlining wing backed chairs and cedar dressers before everything faded once more to muted reds. Eventually, Otto folded away his paper and went to lower the grating. He looked left, right. Nothing but faded horizons. Perhaps tomorrow.

He locked the door, turned the sign, and creaked his way upstairs.