Sarah's doorbell rang. "Ah, yes," she thought. "The other reason I came home. After a week, I almost forgot."
"Come in, Johnny."
The first thing he saw was a large pile of stuff in the middle of her living room.
"Those are books I will never open again," explained Sarah, pointing to the pile. "Videos I'll never watch. CD's I'll never play. Nobody's going to sit in that chair. No one's going to use that blanket. I'm never going to wear those clothes. Candles I'm never going to burn. There's a saucepot I'll never use."
"Sarah," said Johnny in a strange tone, a mixture of laughing and crying, "Dahlia declared that the Age of Prophecy is over. You're the only prophet I have left."
"I've been here for a week, building this pile. Tonight I'm going to finish the mint chocolate chip and throw my ice cream scoop on the pile. It's like it has its own gravity, pulling things into it. It only gets bigger."
"A black hole."
"There's my prophecy," said Sarah.
"Can you see God?" asked Johnny.
"Only in one place," she answered. "Donald."
He saw a vase on the mantle with blue silk roses in it. "These are lovely," he said, surprising himself. She held out her hand and he gave it to her.
"That's the last time anyone will look at it," she said. She tossed it onto the pile. It was just a memory now.
Objet: d'art