Lemons fall all around Peter, he cowers underneath them, then attacks the lower branches again. None of the lemons are the right one. He climbs the tree. Four branches up, he finds it. Only slightly larger than his fist, soft and free of apparent defects. If he were writing a book on lemons, thinks Peter, this lemon would be the cover, no doubt. He finds his way down with his spare arm arm, falls on the last branch, collapses onto his back, arms wrapped around the lemon. It’s safe.
  Idiot, thinks Lauren, standing in the frame of the sliding door, cackling, “Was that really worth the effort?”
  “Definitely,” says Peter, “this is the lemon for me, my biographer will dedicate a chapter to this lemon. I want you to take a photo with me and the lemon— right now, before I put it on my Pancakes, for use on the brochure for my funeral.”
  “Funerals don’t have brochures.”
  “What have they got?” Peter finds a seat besides Anil, face planted firmly amongst a plate of pancakes.
  “Programs. After that fall it’s gonna be important for me to know all of this, yours probably isn’t far off.”
  “Oh shit. You’re right” says Peter, realisation rushing back to him. “Yellowstone’s blown.”
  “Christ are you now naming your lemon?”
  “No, the volcano.”
  “What?”
  Anil interrupts, his mouth still stuffed with pancake “Supervolcano. Like what killed the dinosaurs.”
  “Really?” says Lauren, pulling her phone out of her pocket.
  “It was on the news last night, I didn’t want to wake you guys.”

Lauren pulls out her phone. There is silence but for the scraping of Anil’s cutlery; Peter recognises groaning in his stomach, he is starving in a unique, heartbroken way where warm food becomes the most love someone is able to feel, and perhaps only then because of its impermanence.
  “A fucking supervolcano erupts and you didn’t fucking wake us?” 
  “You both looked so peaceful, I—“
  “I don’t care how peaceful we looked. Since when does looking peaceful take priority over informing us that the world is coming to a fucking end?” 
  “Cut him some slack,” bursts Anil, “he just got dumped.”
  “I didn’t get dumped, I broke up with her.”
  “Can we please stop talking about Peter’s shitty ex-girlfriend?”
  “You guys thought she was shitty?” says Peter.
  “You didn’t notice?”
  “She was a bit of a bogan,” says Anil.
  “But we were just happy you were getting laid. Now, back onto the end of the world.”
  “It’s not the end of the world.”
  “I meant this volcano, not Jennifer. Jesus.” 
  "Oh yeah, that literally is the end of the world." 

  Lauren runs out into the back yard, Anil rises too, but Peter realises it is only to get more pancakes.
  "I think I’m not even feeling that bad about Jennifer, I mean, I’m definitely not gonna miss her family."
  "That’s good man," Peter realises that he is not going to receive a heart to heart from Anil, in-fact, Anil doesn’t care about anything in the world except for the fact that there were still pancakes on his plate. Peter finds himself increasingly less reassured by Anil’s nonchalance as Lauren bursts back into the room.
  "It’s clear outside, where are the black clouds of ash? Where’s the snow?"
  "Maybe it hasn’t made it to Perth yet. Most isolated city in the world and all that," Says Anil.
  "Oh my god, we’re so uncool. First Arcade Fire, then David Byrne, and now even the apocalypse won’t come to Perth."

--

Kacey’s end of the world party wasn’t turning out as Peter had expected, the feeling that this may be his last party ever was not at all unfamilliar. He wished every party he attended could be his last ever. Peter sits on the arm of a courderoy sofa. Suzy and John, vague memories from highschool, dedicate the sofa to their newfound love. Sex is the potato chips of their inner eight year old, thinks Peter, as the bag begins to thin out their apetites replete themselves. Peter thinks himself a savant and a sleaze. As always. 
  Adam appears and Peter confronts him, hoping for salvation from the droll of yet another party. 
  "Hey Pete, I heard about Jennifer. Sucks man."
  "I don’t mind it so much, I mean it’s not the end of the—" Peter stops himself.
  Adam chuckles, filling in for himself, "So why’d she break it off?"
  "She didn’t," Peter feels accused "I broke up with her. For not caring about the world enough."

  Adam pauses a moment, slow talking, moving, walking, the part of Adam which could not survive without the constant attention of women was very lucky he could play guitar. "So are you going to get back together?" he asked, "Now that doesn’t matter?"
  "What?" Peter is dumbfounded.
  "Oh shit, Pete. The apocalypse happened last night. Sorry you had to hear it from me, man." 
  "I know about the apocalypse, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay to be an incompassionate person."
  "I don’t know, man. I’m just happy to have someone to share it with."
Adam could pull a set of crayolas from his shirt pocket, begin scrawling over the walls, and Peter would not think him any less juvenille. Peter congratulates himself for being less stupid than he thinks everyone else is.

--

 Peter wakes to the startling realisation that he is, once again, not dead. His throat feels like the final scene of Hamlet. As he rises it feels as if his brain is trying desperately to stay on the floor. The end of the world would have been one thing, but at this moment Peter dreads more than anything the thought of piecing together last night up until the point which drove him to drink as much as he had. Stepping up, the room swirls around him. Peter plods toward the kitchen. The fridge is bare, on the kitchen sink before him are what he recognises as the misty afterglow of last night’s scotch and rocks, a coke and who-knows-what, and a gin and tonic. Amongst the drinks is a writing pad, potatoes, oil, vermouth, Peter wonders, what’s the part of the brain which filters out the Real Estate agent’s details whenever you write a shopping list? Having read Tender is the Night twice but given up midway through For Whom the Bell Tolls, he chugs the gin and tonic.It’s vodka. Fifty-fifty with flat lemonade. Peter wishes he could summon the enthusiasm to black out again.

  Courting Jennifer had been an interesting ordeal. Peter never thought he found her attractive until during the relationship, and believed the insouciance was the only thing which won her over. It didn’t matter that he had found out she knew Captain Beefheart and decided he was in love with her. And the phone calls they shared until sleep stopped being worth the effort, likely offered to anyone willing to stay up with her. Peter was sure of it, Jenniffer wouldn’t have said yes to anyone who found her attractive. Laughter beckons from outside. Stepping out, Peter becomes frightfully aware of his bare skin against the cold air. 

It was the morning mob, the hospitality and retail workers who didn’t drink and found a bed by ten and woke up more beautiful than they’d been the night before.
  "Morning," says Hayley.
  "Bit of an overhang?" says someone he does not recognise.
  "I would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for this meddling liver."
 They were all too sober, too sharp to find his rambling amusing. When they resume conversation amongst themselves it is jaunty, with gaps where they expect the still-drunk imbecile to interject. Peter’s head feels too heavy to burden upon his neck.

Next Chapter: Chapter 4