Phil & Deirdre

Phil & Deirdre were the last people on Earth. A series of violent cataclysms and pandemics had wiped out the entire human population on the planet, bar just two people, namely Phil and Deirdre Hutchinson from 88 Tuscany Downs. They were the last, the very last. And after them… no more. Till about a fortnight ago, old man Karyotakis from Ashcroft had been alive and well. Deirdre had wished him a good day when he came by walking his dachshund. He looked fine then. Now he was gone too.

The History of Humanity had been a stormy one. From Adam & Eve to Phil & Deirdre in a mere 200,000 years. Still, it had been a colourful story, Man. From making fire by hitting rocks together to Les Fleurs du Mal. And much inbetween. There had been wars and the building of great and fantastical buildings, tubular steel furniture, the crossbreeding of horses and donkeys, the invention of Gods and smartphones, suits of armour, hotpants, existentialism, pogroms, Noh theatre, piñatas, outboard motors, soap operas, piracy, Tibetan throat singing, Oblomov, Time Magazine, space travel, Grandma Moses and garden hoses.

But all this was soon coming to an end with Phil and Deirdre being in their late sixties. They could perhaps live on for a couple of decades, if nothing seriously nasty would happen, but then it would irrevocable be curtain time for El Sapiens, the mighty usurper. The human race was gone but for just these two people who we find, on this fine sunny Friday morning, sitting in their kitchen at their breakfast table. Phil wore brown flip flops, Deirdre coral pink furry slippers. The sun peaked through the curtains, hitting the glasses of orange juice on the table. Phil cleared his throat as he was slicing the top of his boiled egg. Deirdre looked up for a while. Phil crumbled the pieces of eggshell between his fingers into the cup. Deirdre carried on spreading cheese on a piece of slightly burned toast. Phil’s egg was boiled too hard. He grunted. Deirdre chewed her toast.

It was 8:15, according to the clock, but there was no way of checking it. And it didn’t really matter anyway since neither of them had to be anywhere on time. Phil didn’t had to go to work anymore: there was no more work. He could do whatever he wanted. Today he was going to go fishing, he decided as he stirred his coffee. He watched Deirdre as she cleared the dishes from the table. Yes, fishing, that was the ticket. As Phil backed his truck from the garage onto the road, he noticed an unusual bump. He got out to see what it was. Apparently, he had run over Micky II, the neighbours’ cat. Which was a shame.