He read end-time prophecies to me tonight, his voice steady in my ear, his tongue gently tripping over every couple of words. I imprinted the scene in my mind, his smell in my nostrils, the soft pillow against my cheek, his chest in rise-and-fall motion. I spend my life waiting for moments like that. End-time prophecies before a nightshift: the most beautiful bedtime story. A very teenage soap opera HOA class consumed two lined pages, double sided, of pointless conversation. I take solace in my apocalyptic bedtime stories, and reject the 'he likes, she likes' world of high school angst.