They awaited the end of the world on top of a low hill during the splendor of spring, when nothing seemed close to ending or dying. The birds sang their cheerfully oblivious songs and the bumblebees buzzed lazily from flower to flower, ever mindful on their work. Gentle warmth came down and touched their bodies, cooled by an occasional silk-tipped, amorously languid gust of wind.
No, it did not seem at all like the end of the world but the world was deceptive, and could easily fool their weak senses. They had come because the end of the world was a matter of feeling, not seeing. Deep in their consciousness they had felt it, tripped on like a switch searched for in a dark room.
Now they partook in the final dance of legerdemain, the final embraced sensuality.
With the last turn they faced each other and bowed, then raised glasses of sparkling fluid, toasting with resigned smiles and drinking in rapturous flourish to fall a moment later where they stood. The world swallowed them into the hill jealously, and though spring continued and people lived on, It had ended.