The people around you cease to move, and one by one they begin to disappear: the only creatures in existence are you and the baby-faced being beside you. He is standing too close for comfort, and yet it all feels strangely comfortable. He is only a few inches taller than you are, but he is a towering monument of empyrean beauty.
Its sounds absurd—even to you.
Your heart is pounding. It’s pounding itself, like a beating drum without a drummer. Perhaps he can hear it. What if it busts a hole through your chest and bounces onto the floor? Pulsing, pounding, flopping slimily about? Mental note: Beware of the boot.
The words that you say to him are the same ones you said to yourself last night in front of the foggy bathroom mirror, wearing a white T-shirt, your hair dripping. Today, your T-shirt is black.
Just the day before, you had timidly strolled past the classroom, and through the large bug-speckled window he had smiled in a way that suggested he might have had several extra sets of teeth. Seeing him up close, you realize he only has one. Thank God.
He seems to be leaning toward you, causing you to lean back slightly, and yet he is far, far away. While you speak, he does not look away, not even once. His gentle eyes stab you repeatedly.
Then—it is over. One by one, the people start to reappear. They begin to move. Numbness overtakes you.
The two of you go your separate ways.
You were right. There is no God.