“Whatever you’d prefer,” I finally say. “Is there a light?”
“Yeah, hang on.” She reaches into the hole and flips a switch. Her face lights up, too, as she meets my eyes again. “After you, beer guy.”
“Happy to break your fall.” I’m joking but also relieved she chose this. I swing my legs into the pit. “Kinda chilly in here.”
“There’s a furnace we could turn on for the event,” she says. “Air conditioning, too.”
“Wow.” I swing my feet to the rungs of the ladder. “The BONK folks really did think of everything.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “Except how to avoid going to prison for fraud and coercion and money laundering?”
“Minor detail.” I grin as I start down the ladder.
“Careful.”
“Always am.” I take my time descending, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. The bunker smells like cool earth and still air, but it’s not a bad smell. There’s something else, a scent I can’t place.
As I drop to the ground and survey the space, I figure it out. “Rubber.” Stepping toward a crate, I look over to where Mari is descending the ladder. “Why is there a giant box of rubber balls?”
“That is a very good question.” She surveys the collection, then shakes her head. “Maybe they planned to put in a racquetball court?”
“Or have ball wars against the bunker walls.” I move from that mystery and onto another. “Can I look in some of these boxes?”
“Be my guest. The feds took anything valuable when they seized the place, but we haven’t gone through and organized what’s left.”
I pry the top off an oversized plastic crate and peer inside. “Feathers?”
Mari steps in close, shoulder brushing mine as she slips a hand inside. “Feather boas.” She quirks an eyebrow. “Because that’s what everyone needs with a zombie apocalypse raging outside?”
I laugh and keep moving, stepping deeper into the space. I’m dumbfounded by how big this is. “We can definitely host an event here,” I call. “That spot over there would be perfect for kegs.”
She surveys it and nods. “I was thinking a bar right there, and maybe food stations scattered around to keep people moving.”
“Yeah, I can picture that.” I really can, and it’s way cooler than I imagined when they suggested this mixer. My gaze lands on another plastic crate, and curiosity gets the best of me.
“What’s your guess?” I ask. “Hockey sticks? Five-pound bags of freeze-dried brine shrimp eggs?”
“The label says Condensed Milk,” she points out.
“That it does.” But as I pry off the lid, that’s not what I see. “Vodka. Lots and lots of vodka.”
She grins, firing a flurry of carbon bubbles through my chest. “I mean, who are we to judge what people do at the end of the world?”
“That’s fair.” I survey the rest of the items. Boxes of hot sauce. Rolls of duct tape. Someone with an over-active imagination could have a heyday figuring out what all this stuff is for. “Where were they supposed to…uh…relieve themselves?”
Mari points to a stack of five-gallon buckets in the corner. “At first I thought those. I even found a bunch of toilet seats that looked like something you could mount on top.”
“There’s a pleasant thought.”
“Don’t worry, there’s plumbing. The restrooms are even ADA compliant.”
I’m still studying boxes, wondering what’s in them. What would people bring with them when fleeing to an underground bunker?
“What would you want?” I turn back to Mari. “You’re stuck in an underground bunker for weeks or months or hell, maybe years. What five items would you like to have?”
Mari scrunches her face and looks thoughtful. “Are we assuming food’s already covered?”
“Maybe. Let’s say you get one luxury food item.”
“Muffins,” she says without hesitation. “Or maybe the ingredients to make muffins. That’s assuming I complete my baking lessons between now and the end of the world.”
“Good to have goals. What else?”
Her forehead furrows. “Would a crochet hook and yarn count as one item or two?”
“Let’s say one. What else?”
“Condoms.” She blinks like she’s surprised herself. “I mean, practically speaking, we’re down there for an indeterminate amount of time, and sex is a natural form of entertainment and expression and—” She stops and presses her lips together like she can’t believe she went there.
I can’t, either, but I love it. I love it almost as much as I love that she said “we.” Did she mean the two of us? Other community members would presumably be there, but I like to think I factored into her thoughts.
Maybe I’m kidding myself.
“How about you?” She tucks her hands into her pants pockets. “What are some of your five items?”
“I’ll go with beer for the culinary item. An IPA, one with a strong citra profile.”
“Citra.” She looks thoughtful. “Your favorite hops?”
I can’t tell if she remembers what I said about the shampoo. With my luck she’s noticed me sniffing her.
Stop being a creep.
“Citra tops the list of my favorite brewing hops,” I tell her. “There are actually about two hundred varieties.”
“Is it tough to pick just one? Or beer varieties—how do you choose a favorite when there are so many?”
I shrug and look her in the eye. “It’s not difficult. I know what I like.”
Like a moron, I let my gaze drop to her mouth. Mari stares back, her cheeks pinkening, but she doesn’t move away. “What else? What are some of your non-culinary choices?”
“I suppose man can’t live on beer alone.” I give it some thought, swallowing as my brain ambles down a dark path.
The marriage counselor’s office, just weeks before Gabby moved out. “Pretend you’re stranded together on a desert island,” the therapist instructed. “Each of you should make a list of what’s important. You’ll compare lists and settle on the ten most vital.”
It’s supposed to be an exercise in compromise and teamwork and problem-solving. My list had things like sunblock, a knife, food.
Gabby’s included books, her favorite perfume, a laptop for watching movies.
We bickered about the intent of the exercise and who’d misunderstood the directions. The therapist watched with eyes that saw more than we could.
It’s Mari watching me now, so I take a deep breath. “Am I supposed to list practical things like toilet paper and tools, or things I can’t stand living without?”
She smiles. “I suppose that’s part of the exercise. Do you gravitate toward the practical or the passion?”
My gaze drops to her mouth again. Until last week, I’d have said practical. No question.
But her condom response gives me pause.
“It depends,” I say slowly. “If basic survival isn’t in question, I’d crave passion. Something to make surviving worthwhile.”