Friday Flash Fiction 35

END OF THE WORLD
By Gareth L Powell

Michelle and I broke up over a lunchtime bottle of wine in a crowded bar by the river. We'd been seeing each other for eighteen months, and now it had to end.

She said, "So that's it?"

I shrugged. "I guess so."

She fiddled with the stem of her glass, looking angry and upset. The place smelled of garlic and spilled beer. We finished the wine in silence, and got up to leave.

As we stepped outside, the ground shook and the office blocks of Canary Wharf ripped free from their foundations, rising into the sky like rockets, trailing pipes and cables and loose bricks.

People were shouting and screaming. Michelle put a hand to her mouth. There were tears in her eyes.

"It's the end of the world," she said.