Tracey and I had just moved into our new penthouse apartment. From the hall I walked down the two small steps into the sunken living room to peer out at the rooftops far below. One of them was amazingly close to us and seemed to slant down away from our balcony. The apartment was very gray, with light filtering in through the drawn blinds. I was very smartly dressed and zipping through the new place, whisking away blinds and drapes to peer out at the skyline. I took Tracey in my arms and spun her through the dining room. We undressed quickly and made love on the dining room table. She arched her back and threw back her head as she slid on top of me.
We finished and relaxed on the stylish furniture in the living room. The reporter on the television spoke of a horrible plane crash. Footage of charred wreckage and tearful, hysterical survivors flash across the screen. We flipped off the television. We talked and gestured with our hands, looks of sophistication were casually played off of each other. Things were going rather well until we saw the huge passenger plane nosedive into the buildings outside of our window. As the smoke is rising, a woman, haggard, clothes torn, hair a mess comes climbing up the neighboring rooftop, blaming us for the apocalypse. I try to explain that we just saw the plane crash on the news, but we could do nothing to satisfy her anger.