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He almost died.
The sun would rise and fall in its inconsistent manner, days of the week could wander from the calendar and return when they see fit. Carlos would witness such odd moments with a new lease on life and several pockmarked patches of skin. The wounds hurt, but he did not die. “Eventually, I will die,” he breathed into the dry night air. Sometime in the future, maybe tomorrow or on a day that would not exist.
Cecil, dear Cecil told him they are all dying. Their cells were tiny clocks with tinier gears that ticked themselves to oblivion then were replaced.
“We are all phoenixes,” Cecil whispered. They sat on the roof of Carlos’s rental home under a large swath of starless black sky days after the tiny city began its march to war. Two moons hung in the sky casting light that made their skin glow. “We are all reborn in ourselves and around each other. When we wake up we are not who we were when we went to sleep. And yet we are the same, but never static.”
Carlos reached for his hand and Cecil squeezed tight. The gesture reminded him that he will die, but not now. Not now because he was breathing in air that smelled faintly like a sea that wasn’t near and Cecil. The crickets chirped when Cecil kissed him and brushed his fingers through his hair. He had wanted to kiss Cecil, kind Cecil under the harsh fluorescent of the Arby’s parking lot, but that time demanded silence and contemplation. Under the blank black sky and twin moons the kiss made sense in a town where sense was for others.
Their cells exploded and were replaced while their skin grew warm. They were phoenixes and together they burned bright.