Dean considered coffee dates—how fruitless they were. He had been on many of these so-called sophisticated soirees before the world exploded and drown in its own vomit.

He began rowing towards the shipping container, where the naked woman was tanning herself against a red radiated sky.

Now, it was burning, and it gave him a warm feeling.

“Miss, would you like to step aboard?”

She looked at him expectantly. “Okay, but I’m not going to sleep with you.”

“Baby, if I want it bad enough, I’ll take it.”

“You won’t!?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re a gentleman.”

Dean rolled his eyes, until they rested permanently inside his skull.

“Have you ever had canned caviar?” The woman asked him.

“No.”

“Go ahead and try some.”

“No.”

“You’ve spent too much time alone, haven’t you?” she said.

“And you’re going to cure me of that.”

“What do you think?” She laughed. “Let me put-on my bathing suit, and I’ll join you.”

She had blond hair.

Women had vanished from Dean’s head since the world ended. Now, they were back—or at least, one of them was.

“Not a very sea-worthy craft you have here,” the woman suggested.

“It’s my boat.”

“Sure, it is—what did you name her?”

“The Bitch.”

“You don’t have good social skills, do you?”

“No need. Look around.”

She did. It was like someone had spilled their microwave soup, and it was boiling-over, and catching fire.

“What’s your plan?” She asked him.

“What makes you think I have one?”

She looked at him as if she thought he thought she was stupid.

“I’ve got to find a bigger boat. Then, we’ll go down to the Cape.”

“My name’s Kara.”

Lance looked into her eyes. She wanted him, but there was no place to do it in his skiff. He needed a bigger boat.

To be continued…