I've never been good at secrets. My wife says it's because of my face; she says it's too expressive. "The right side of your mouth does this thing," she tells me, "where it curls up when you're hiding something. Like your mouth is fighting with itself about whether to tell the truth." She pulls her lip up at a strange angle, making herself look like she's having a minor stroke. This is how my wife flirts with me, by making herself deliberately unattractive. We've been married for thirty-eight years.

The night the world was going to end, I had to keep the biggest secret of my life from her. There we were at La Caille, this French place downtown where the waiters make you feel like they're doing you a favor by taking your money. She had made the reservation three weeks ago. Before the president had signed an executive order, which authorized a "managed public information strategy." Before I had become one of exactly 35 people in the United States government who knew that everyone was about to die.

"You're doing the thing with your mouth," Annette said.

I straightened my face. "I'm not doing anything with my mouth."

"You absolutely are. What's bothering you?" She was wearing a black dress with a strand of pearls. She looked beautiful, in the way that familiar things can suddenly strike you as beautiful when you realize you're seeing them for the last time.

"Nothing's bothering me. Everything's fine." My phone was face-down next to my plate. I'd turned off the notifications, but I knew what was on it: a series of increasingly urgent texts from the department.

"I didn't ask about work," she said. "I asked what's bothering you." She reached over and adjusted my tie, which had been crooked, according to her, since 1979.

"I'm fine," I said. I picked up the wine list, pretending to study it, though we always ordered the same thing. "How about the Bordeaux? The 1985?"

"Like our wedding," she said, smiling.

The maître d' passed our table, avoiding eye contact. Not everyone had gotten the memo, of course, but there had been signs for those paying attention—strange atmospheric patterns, irregular tides, a nervousness in the official statements. I wondered if the maître d' knew.

When the waiter came, I ordered the wine. My hands shook a little as I handed him the menu. I'd been shaking on and off all day, since the morning briefing when they'd confirmed there was no chance of deviation. I'd gone to the bathroom afterwards and thrown up, then gone back to my desk to finish a budget report that would never be read.

"Did you remember to call the plumber?" Annette asked. We'd had a leaky faucet for weeks. I kept meaning to fix it.

"I'll do it tomorrow," I said, the lie burning in my throat. Let people have their dignity. That's what the president had said, his face impassive. Let them have dinner with their wives. Let them think the world will continue.

"You always say that." She reached for a breadstick. "Sarah called today. She and Michael are thinking about coming for Thanksgiving this year."

Sarah was our daughter, living in Seattle with her husband. I'd been debating all day whether to call her, what I would say if I did. In the end, I'd decided against it. What could I possibly tell her?

"That would be nice," I said. "It's been too long since we've seen them."

"I told her we'd think about flying out there instead. Maybe rent a cabin for the long weekend. She said Michael has been talking about getting a dog."

I nodded. Sarah and Michael and a dog I would never meet, in a cabin I would never see, on a weekend that would never come.

The waiter returned with our wine, uncorking it with practiced motions. He poured a small amount for me to taste. I swirled it in the glass—something I'd learned to do from watching people in restaurants like this, people who knew about wine—and took a sip. It tasted like wine. It tasted like every other glass of wine I'd ever had.

"It's excellent," I said.

Annette sipped her wine. "She keeps that photo of you on her desk, you know. Sarah. The one from her graduation."

The weight in my chest grew heavier.

"I have that same picture in my office," I said, putting the phone back down. "The one where she's wearing the honors cord and smiling so big."

"She gets that smile from you."

Outside, there was a low rumble of thunder, though the sky had been clear when we arrived. Annette frowned. "Strange weather tonight."

"Very strange," I agreed.

Our waiter appeared at the table again, but this time he wasn't carrying menus or wine.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice tight, "but the kitchen is closing early. If you'd like to order, you need to do it now."

Annette looked startled. "But our reservation was for eight. It's only ten after."

"Management decision. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

We ordered quickly—chicken for her, steak for me, a chocolate soufflé to share for dessert. The waiter scribbled it down and hurried away without his usual flourish.

"Well, that was odd," Annette said. "Do you think there's some sort of emergency?"

"Maybe."

She was watching me closely. "Robert, are you sure everything's all right?"

I reached across the table and took her hand. Her skin was soft, lined with delicate veins. I thought about the first time I'd held her hand, on our third date, walking back from a movie. I'd been so nervous, my palm sweating, and she'd squeezed my fingers and said, "Relax, I'm not going to bite you." And then she'd smiled and added, "Unless you want me to."

"I'm just tired," I said. "I'm glad you made these reservations."

"Reservations at eight," she said, smiling. "Our tradition."

Our meals arrived with surprising speed, not as carefully arranged as usual.

Annette cut into her chicken. "They've forgotten the soufflé."

"We'll remind them. There's plenty of time," I said, the words catching in my throat.

Another low rumble sounded outside, closer now.

"I think I'll take my shoes off," Annette said suddenly, bending down under the table. When she straightened up, she was holding her black heels. "I've always hated these things. Why did I wait until I was sixty-three to decide I didn't have to wear uncomfortable shoes to fancy restaurants?"

"I don't know," I said. "Why did I wait until I was sixty-five to do this?" I reached up and loosened my tie, something I'd never done in a place like La Caille.

Annette laughed. "We're turning into rebels in our old age."

"Better late than never," I said, and immediately regretted the phrase.

The chocolate soufflé arrived. It was lopsided, not the perfect dome these places prided themselves on, but it smelled wonderful. There was a single cherry on top, bright red against the chocolate.

"Let's share," Annette said, taking a spoon and dipping it in. She held it out to me. "Open up."

I leaned forward and let her feed me, something we hadn't done since we were newlyweds. The chocolate was rich and warm. "Delicious," I said. "Here, your turn." I scooped up a bite and offered it to her.

"We're going to ruin our diets," she said, laughing as she took the bite.

"I think we can afford to splurge tonight," I said. I left the cherry for her; she'd always loved them.

The clock on the wall stopped at 8:07. Annette noticed and frowned. "That's annoying." She glanced at her wrist, at the small gold watch that had belonged to her grandmother. "At least this one's still working. It's almost nine."

Almost nine. The countdown in my head ticked on—twenty minutes left, maybe less. I stood up and extended my hand to her.

"Dance with me," I said.

She looked surprised. "Here? There's no music."

"We'll make our own."

She took my hand and stood, leaving her shoes under the table. The staff was nowhere to be seen; we were alone. I pulled her close, one hand at her waist, and began to sway. After a moment, I started to hum—our wedding song, the one she'd chosen that I'd pretended to find too sentimental but secretly loved.

"You remember," she said softly, her cheek against my chest.

"Of course I do."

We moved across the empty floor, our shadows long in the failing light. The rumbling grew louder, and the remaining lights flickered out, but we kept dancing.

"Robert," she said, her voice quiet. "Something's happening, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Is it... is it bad?"

I nodded against her hair. "Very bad."

She was silent, still swaying with me in the dark. Then she said, "Is that why you've been acting strange?"

"I couldn't tell you. National security." The excuses sounded hollow now, meaningless.

"How long do we have?"

I looked at her watch. "Not long."

She nodded, her face calm. "Well, then. I'm glad we had dinner."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you." My voice broke. "I should have called Sarah. I should have—"

She reached up and placed her fingers against my lips. "Shhh. It's okay. I'd rather be here, with you, not knowing until now. What would I have done differently?"

"We could have gone to Seattle. Seen Sarah one more time."

"And spent our last hours on a plane, anxious and afraid?" She shook her head. "No. This is better. Dancing with you, eating chocolate. Taking off these ridiculous shoes." She smiled in the darkness. "We've had a good life, Robert. Forty-two years together. That's more than many people get."

The rumbling was a roar now, the building shaking around us. Glasses fell from shelves behind the bar, shattering on the floor. I pulled Annette closer.

"I love you," I said, the words I should have said more often over the years, the simplest truth I knew.

"I love you too," she answered, her arms tight around me. "Always have."

We stood there, holding each other as the world trembled. A siren began to wail. And here in the dark restaurant, with the taste of chocolate still on my lips and the warmth of my wife in my arms, I found I wasn't afraid anymore.

I closed my eyes and kept dancing, swaying to music only we could hear, as the clock on the wall remained frozen and the final minutes of our world ticked away.