When the apocalypse comes, Jesus asks you to dinner. Jesus is the son of your mother’s best friend; naturally, you cannot say no. He’s five minutes late in picking you up, bites his thumb in supplication, and you want to press him against the leather seats of Jesus’ dad’s Cadillac. You’ve been on worse dates. The company’s decent, the sex phenomenal, except there is no sex and you’re left wondering why you thought there would be. This is not how you pictured the end of the world. Somewhere, a door slams. Your neighbors are filing for divorce. Jesus walks you to your door with his hand above your waist. He kisses you and time unravels, a ball of yarn torn between opposing knitting needles. Crabapples. Jesus tastes like crabapples and the final stanza of “Amazing Grace.” God calls, asks Jesus when he’ll be home. The sky is orange. At the end of your mother’s driveway, your mother’s best friend’s son’s car radio narrates the coming of the savior: This is Delilah. Avert thy mortal eyes.