Inevitably, the Apocalypse happened on a Whiskeyknitting night.
Of course, no one was quite sure in those early days what the Apocalypse had actually been. The lights and the networks just suddenly went out, and unless you happened to be near a radio or a landline, even your access to rumor and speculation was limited. In the Irish pub in Decatur, Georgia, where the Whiskeyknitters regularly met, there was a rather improper first reaction to the blackout.
“Huh…” said Allison, who probably would have been more articulate if her mouth hadn’t been full.
“Fuck! I was counting stitches!” said Kate. “I hate losing track.”
“I bet it’s the end of the world,” said Shannan, but no one thought much of it because she always thought it was the end of the world.
“Where’s the waitress?” said Nancy. “This calls for another drink.”
On this, all were agreed. Whiskey, beer, and wine orders were called out into the darkness and acknowledged by the staff.
“At least we’re within walking distance of Allison’s,” said Rachel, counting stitches by feel before capping her needles. “If it is the apocalypse, fresh eggs will be hard to come by.”
“Well, I’d have a heck of a walk home,” said Mera, “so I’d really rather the apocalypse wait a few hours.”
“Tell me about it,” said Pamela, who lived in the wilds of Smyrna.
Allison took a picture of the group by the light of the candle in the middle of the table and tried to post it to Facebook. “Y’all,” she said, “I can’t access Facebook. Maybe it IS the apocalypse!”
To be continued…