Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 10
Day 275: Clothing Optional
She was the one who started it.
I’d slept in a little that morning, and Amara had gotten up ahead of me. I’d figured she’d either gone out scavenging or had made a trip to the well for some water. I was in the kitchen, getting breakfast ready, when I heard her enter. “Good morning, sunshine,” she sang out.
I turned and looked at her ... and nearly dropped the mango I was cutting on the floor.
She was wearing a big, floppy hat she’d grabbed somewhere, a pair of flip-flops, a cheesy smile—and quite literally nothing else. That’s right ... she was standing before me in her birthday suit, having gone out to run some errands in that state.
I quickly gathered myself together. “So, you’ve decided that clothing is optional in this world?” I said with a laugh.
“I didn’t feel like putting anything on this morning,” she explained, still grinning. “So, I thought, why not? Who’s around to care whether I’m naked or not?”
I cracked up. “You never cease to amaze me.”
We had breakfast out on the patio, with Amara still in the buff. A dare hung unspoken for a while, until she decided to verbalize it.
“So why don’t you join me?” she suggested. “Come on. Lose the clothes, and let’s go for a walk.”
I shrugged, stood up, and started to take off my shirt. “I’m game. And you’re right—there’s no one around to care.”
Before I knew it, a few hours had passed, and it was mid-afternoon. There we were, walking down the middle of the street in our neighborhood—not barefoot, since flip-flops were a necessity on the hot cracked asphalt—but bare everything else, and very much not caring. Somewhere, a squirrel chattered at us from a tree branch like it was in full approval. I was half-convinced it was Amara’s spirit animal.
“Charlie,” Amara said, squinting at me with one hand on her hip and the other shading her eyes. “You are starting to toast, my guy.”
I looked down at myself. Sure enough, my shoulders were a little pink. My chest too. And ... yep. There was definitely a line forming in a place where, frankly, I didn’t want a line forming.
“I thought I was building up a tolerance,” I said, shrugging like it didn’t hurt. I was becoming aware that it totally hurt.
Amara snorted. “You’re not bread. You don’t get to toast evenly.”
“Well, neither do I get the luxury of built-in SPF 50—like one of us.”
She smirked, walking ahead of me with that sway in her step—and that wiggle in her bare tush—that made me forget we were the two last humans on Earth.
“Some of us,” she called back over her shoulder, “are naturally equipped to handle the sun like grown-ups.”
“Oh, please,” I mock-grumbled, jogging to catch up. “You’re just showing off now.”
“You agreed to go full ‘Garden of Eden’ with me,” she said, spinning around to walk backwards, arms out like she was modeling invisible clothes. “You’re a co-conspirator. Don’t blame me when you end up medium-rare.”
“I blame your terrible influence.”
She grinned widely. “You love my influence.”
Touché.
We stopped near a small patch of lawn that had managed to stay surprisingly green without anyone tending it. Amara flopped down on the grass like it was a luxury chaise lounge and patted the spot next to her. I lowered myself down with considerably more caution, wincing as my sun-kissed thighs hit warm earth.
“Okay, yeah, this was a mistake,” I muttered. “I think my butt just hit second-degree.”
Amara laughed so hard she rolled over, clutching her stomach.
I reached for the bag we’d brought and pulled out the tube of aloe gel—my new best friend. Amara had thoughtfully thrown it in the bag.
“I should just start bathing in this,” I said, squeezing some into my palm.
Amara sat up, brushing grass off her bare hip. “I told you I’d help you with sunscreen earlier, and you said—what was it again?—’I’m fine, I’m not made of paper.’”
“That sounds like something Past Charlie would say. Past Charlie was a fool.”
“You poor, delicate flower,” she teased, leaning over to inspect my shoulders. “You’re turning lobster.”
“You love lobster,” I said, giving her a pointed look.
“Yeah, when it’s on a plate. Not when it’s whining next to me.”
I reached out and dabbed a glob of aloe onto the tip of her nose. “I want you on a plate,” I growled.
She blinked. Then scowled. Then grinned.
“You’re lucky we’re the only people on Earth,” she said. “Otherwise, I’d have witnesses when I wrestle you into submission and have my way with you.”
“Promises, promises.”
We sat in the sun like that for a while—me gently cooking, as I figured the damage had already been done. She was perfectly unbothered, laughing at my suffering in the most affectionate way possible. It was ridiculous, and kind of painful, and ... perfect.
Just another day in paradise. Birthday suits and all.
It was later that same evening. The stars were out again, same as always. Silent, watching, ancient. We were lounging on the big cushioned outdoor couch we’d dragged out onto the patio a few weeks back—one of our better scavenging achievements. There were solar lanterns glowing softly in jars around us, flickering like lazy fireflies.
Amara sat cross-legged beside me in a loose tank top and quite literally nothing else, legs tucked under a fuzzy throw. Her hair was twisted up in that casual way that made me irrationally fond of her neck. I, meanwhile, was still nursing my wounds. Sunburn wounds—I was coming to realize that I had them on parts of me that had never seen the light of day before last Tuesday.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, trying not to laugh—but definitely laughing with her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I said heroically, lying through my teeth. “Just think. Tomorrow, I’ll be shedding, like a majestic lizard.”
She leaned over, inspecting my shoulder with a nurse’s seriousness. Then she gently poked it.
I winced.
“Lizard, huh? More like rotisserie chicken.”
“Hey,” I said. “This chicken is doing his best.”
She laughed and reached for the bottle of aloe vera gel, already halfway empty thanks to me. She popped the cap and squeezed some into her hand.
“Turn,” she said.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Turn, Lobster Boy.”
I turned.
The gel was cool, heavenly. Her touch was even better—slow, gentle, just enough pressure to soothe without making me yelp. She worked in small circles, and despite the stinging, I felt myself relaxing, sinking into her hands like warm clay.
“You have healing hands,” I murmured.
“I watched a YouTube video once,” she deadpanned.
I snorted.
We sat in silence for a few moments. The only sound was the occasional chirp of frogs and the soft squish of aloe.
“You know,” she said eventually, “if we were still in the real world, this would probably be the weirdest date ever.”
“True. But also the cheapest.”
“No drinks, no food, no awkward waiter hovering around. Just me rubbing goo on your shoulders while you moan like a grandpa.”
“That’s how I imagined all my best dates.”
She chuckled and then pressed a kiss to the back of my neck. It was light, barely there, but it sent a wave of warmth through me that had nothing to do with the Florida humidity.
I turned slightly so I could see her, really see her in the glow of our little backyard lantern world. Her expression had softened—eyes warm, full of affection. I reached up, brushing a curl away from her cheek.
“Thanks for taking care of me,” I said.
“You’d do the same.”
“I would.”
We leaned back together into the cushions. Her head on my shoulder. My arm around her waist. I turned to face her, and our lips came together in a sweet kiss. Somewhere in the distance, a raccoon probably judged us for our aloe-slicked PDA. It wouldn’t be long until it judged us for more than that.
“I still think we should invest in umbrellas,” I said sleepily.
“Or you could just put pants on,” she replied.
“Hmm. Nah. That wouldn’t be any fun.”
She laughed softly, and I felt it in my chest.
Then, we spread out on the sofa ... and did, in fact, give the raccoons something to talk about, in spite of my sunburn.
Afterward, the world was quiet. And for all its ruin, it had given me this.
Us.
Day 278: On the Links
Somewhere around hole five, I realized this might go down as one of the strangest—and most hilarious—days of my life.
We’d started the afternoon with good intentions: tennis. Why not? We’d done this many times before, right? What difference did it make if we were au naturel? But we didn’t last five minutes.
“This is ridiculous,” Amara had said, breathless from laughing, clutching her chest after a particularly wild serve. “Everything bounces, Charlie. Everything.”
“For me, too,” I pointed out.
“Huh?” she uttered. Then she looked at me. “Oh ... right.”
“I’m one sharp turn away from disaster,” I added, starting to cringe at the possibility.
So, we bailed on tennis and wandered, still entirely in the buff—more and more, it was becoming our way of life. We passed empty lounge chairs, a shuttered smoothie bar, and then, tucked behind a wall of overgrown hibiscus, we saw it.
The mini golf course.
It was pristine, somehow untouched by the months that had passed. A little faded, sure. A few leaves and pine needles scattered here and there. But the statues were intact, the fake windmill still slowly turning in the breeze, and best of all, the office wasn’t even locked. Inside, we found exactly what we needed: a bin of beat-up clubs, a plastic tub of golf balls, and a stack of score cards with tiny sharpened pencils still rubber-banded together.
Amara grabbed a purple ball and a blue club and twirled it like a baton. “You’re going down.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Are we really doing this?”
“Charlie, we tried naked tennis. This is tame.”
And so, naked mini golf it was.
We played all eighteen holes. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. The double entendres came fast and furious. At one point, she asked me, “Is that a three-wood, or are you just glad to see me?”
Amara made a miraculous bank shot through the dragon’s mouth on hole seven and danced a little victory jig that made it very hard for me to concentrate. I missed two shots in a row after that.
“You’re distracted,” she teased, marking a bold little ‘4’ on her card.
“I’m naked, watching you bend over to putt,” I said. “Distracted doesn’t even cover it.”
She just laughed, skipping to the next hole, the sun catching in her hair, her skin glowing like she was made of light and laughter.
By the end, she beat me by six strokes. She wrote “CHAMPION” in all caps at the top of her card, signed her name, and stuck it triumphantly into the crack of a plastic alligator’s mouth at the last hole like a trophy.
“You’ll never live this down,” she said, wrapping her arms around my neck.
“I let you win,” I said, kissing the side of her head.
“You did not.”
“Okay, fine. I tried. But again: you’re naked. That’s cheating.”
She tilted her head. “Then we’ll just have to find a sport where my nudity doesn’t interfere with your fragile male focus.”
“Mini golf’s out. Tennis is out. What’s left?”
She grinned. “Naked chess?”
“That’s ... actually not a terrible idea.”
We walked off the course hand in hand, with the afternoon shadows deepening, and I thought—not for the first time—that paradise might not be about where you are. It might be who you’re with, and how absurdly, joyously naked you’re allowed to be with them.
Day 280: Building Our Own Course
I don’t know what made us do it—maybe it was the sunshine, maybe the leftover giddiness from our last round, or maybe just the fact that we had absolutely no one around to tell us not to—but two days after our infamous naked mini golf outing, we decided to build our own course.
“We can’t let that energy die,” Amara said, hands on her hips as she surveyed the backyard two houses over. “This space is perfect.” Today, she had on a T-shirt—but only a T-shirt.
It was mostly flat, open, a little weedy, but nothing we couldn’t handle. I was already imagining the course layout in my head. We had the clubs, the balls, the old scorecards. All we needed now was a vision—and the ability to bend a little plastic and wood to our will.
By mid-morning we were hauling over all kinds of junk: potted plants, old patio furniture, a plastic kiddie slide, some overturned laundry baskets, and, of course, the two gloriously tacky flamingos from our front yard.
Hole three became the “Flamingo Fork,” where players had to shoot through the narrow gap between their splayed legs. Amara set them up with deliberate symmetry and named them Barry and Janet.
“They’ve got style,” she said, brushing one of Barry’s plastic feathers.
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