Possibilities

We've discussed it many times, in crisp morning fog and under the sweltering afternoon sun; sitting in restaurants with white tablecloths and lounging on our battered leather sofa. I tell my wife to never discuss it with anyone but me: no one knows her like I do, they'll not understand. Does she want to be the woman in the room people whisper about? But she doesn't see it that way. When I claim it is scientifically impossible, she shrugs and says it is possible, her only proof originating from fictional books, popular television shows, and her dreams.

My wife mentions her elaborate escape plans, how we need to arm ourselves, how when it happens I'm to follow her blindly, at least once a week. Giving full decision making control to my wife makes me uneasy, but it will never happen so I agree. Sometimes it's easier to just let her get it out, uninterrupted, so we can move on to other things, like if we have enough money to get a new sofa, or how lesbians in movies seem to sleep with a lot of men.

I think about searching for a support group, a place where I can stand up and say, "Hi. My name is ____, and the love of my life, the heart inside my heart, thinks the zombie apocalypse is possible. I cannot convince her otherwise. What do I do?" Sympathetic faces will look back at me. Some will look at the floor, knowing all to well how if feels to try to reason with the unreasonable, finding it hard share another person's struggles when they have so many of their own. But some will look at me and nod, and in that instant I'll feel better, less like a melting iceberg housing a climate change naysayer.

Science better damn well prove me right because the thought of a bunch of brain-eating, blood-soaked, raggedy undead outside my door, groaning, clawing to get in, makes me want to piss my pants and swallow my tongue. Let's hope my wife has a plan for that. Just in case.