The last woman on Earth and the last man on Earth are living quite separately these days.

She keeps logs, a woodburning stove and several bushels of wax candles in a moderately plush manor house that's still within walking distance of the supermarket and its bottled water and other lootable supplies. He is working his way through the rooms of a 5-star hotel, moved on by defunct plumbing.

Sometimes she thinks back to the excitement of their initial meeting, the only survivors of the catastrophe, unexpected and with the world at their feet. The passion of the early days. The gradual drift as he fails to grow tomatoes or even blackberries in the thin sunlight of the allotment. Or spends obsessive hours on battery-operated CD players and games consoles. "At least it's other voices, Deniece," he tells her.

The stuck-record realisation that the mains electricity and the water supply and Insta and Netflix are never going to magically come back on. And Robert will be her one option forever. Oh, she can be faithful – she was married for five years in the Before time. But now one can't even realistically dream of an alternative, a Mr D'Arcy or a Mellors or even a Sister Cecillia to tip her the wink and cause just a little stomach flutter.

A companionable pet would be nice, but dogs, cats and horses all perished along with humanity. The most they've found is a few earthworms and lower form ground-dwelling insects. Bizarrely, she longs for bees.

It's Sunday. Long-lapsed Christians, neither felt the need to offer any worship this morning to a God who may be angry, absent or never existed in the first place. The tradition is that Robert will come to her house this evening and help operate the Calor gas stove. They can feast on some more tinned food that is by now at least a year past its expiry date.

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