pants, everything. He's bigger than I imagined, and softer, with a pale pink, nearly hairless torso like a baby's. He's talking to me.
How are you? I mean, how are you really? I'm so lonely.
He jumps up onto his chair. And now he's singing to me.
I don't want to ask myself. I don't want to go deep down.
***
Four years go by. The boss is still singing. Or he sang. Present tense or past, I don't know. He's a recording, but he's always been a recording. Everyone is a recording to everyone else, a memory, a past transcript embedded in air or water or sound or light. No matter how close they are, they are not here. What they said, when they said it, it is not now.
I decide to write Tina a message. Just for kicks. It'll never get to her. Just for whatever.
I type:
You think you're too good for me.
I hit Send. It will never get to her. The universe will renew itself, collapse and expand and collapse and expand again before this message finds her out there, in all of that space, all of that distance, a sea of meters, an ocean of impossibility. It will never get to her, I know. I should go visit my aunt Betty. I tell myself I will go visit my aunt Betty. Next year. Or the year after.
***
And then it's silent. It's silent for a long time.
***
Four years go by. Twenty thousand years go by. Florence is circling, not making a noise. It's so quiet. My whole life has been quiet. And now it's getting quieter. Every person in the universe I care about may be dead. And I wouldn't be able to tell. All I can hear is my breathing. And the occasional blip telling me Florence is still alive, still moving through the depths. I should go visit my aunt Betty. She sent another card. She sends one every so often. Years pass. It feels like a lot of them. Years, years, years.
***
I go deep down.
I ask myself:
Is he dead?
Is she dead?
Am I dead?
Four years go by. Florence is circling. It's day. It's night. It's summer. It's winter. It's summer. It's day. It's a storm that lasts eight hundred years.
***
Four thousand years go by.
A voice message from Tina comes through.
Hey,
she says.
Hey,
I say.
Four years.
Hey,
she says.
Hey,
I say.
How's Florence?
Is that really what you want to talk about?
I say.
For the last conversation we'll ever have?
Don't.
Don't what?
Don't be mad at me.
Okay.
No, really. You have to try not to be mad.
I thought you were coming here.
The harder I try to hide the self-pity in my voice, the worse it sounds.
Silence. Tina says nothing. Above the hiss and crackle of cosmic background radiation, I can still hear the boss. He has stopped singing. He says:
Here is just a special case of there. All heres are really theres.
I really miss you,
Tina says.
No, you don't. If you did, you'd be here. You wouldn't be there.
What's the difference if I'm here or there?
Now you sound like my boss,
I say. The boss has started singing again.
He knows what he's talking about.
Tina, he's dead. And in love with me. And crooning in the nude.
Why do you always want us to be...
Closer?
Yeah. How close is close? How close is enough?
Close enough for us to breathe the same air.
We're breathing the same air now.
You know what I mean, Tina.
Well, at some point some of the molecules of the air you're breathing were probably in my lungs. Eventually we'll breathe the same air, drink the same water, pass the same molecules through our bodies. Eventually.
You know what I mean. In the same room.
What's the difference? Anyway, we are in the same room now. A room the size of this galaxy. Why not a room the size of everything? Four walls around the cosmos.
The boss is still going at it. He's scrubbed, he's smooth, he's nude. He's singing.
"I've Got the World on a String."
"Fly Me to the Moon." Florence is circling.
But I can't see you,
I say.
You can't see me.
Right. I think of being together as being able to see you.
Is it all a question of optics, then? Of biomechanics? Of the properties
How are you? I mean, how are you really? I'm so lonely.
He jumps up onto his chair. And now he's singing to me.
I don't want to ask myself. I don't want to go deep down.
***
Four years go by. The boss is still singing. Or he sang. Present tense or past, I don't know. He's a recording, but he's always been a recording. Everyone is a recording to everyone else, a memory, a past transcript embedded in air or water or sound or light. No matter how close they are, they are not here. What they said, when they said it, it is not now.
I decide to write Tina a message. Just for kicks. It'll never get to her. Just for whatever.
I type:
You think you're too good for me.
I hit Send. It will never get to her. The universe will renew itself, collapse and expand and collapse and expand again before this message finds her out there, in all of that space, all of that distance, a sea of meters, an ocean of impossibility. It will never get to her, I know. I should go visit my aunt Betty. I tell myself I will go visit my aunt Betty. Next year. Or the year after.
***
And then it's silent. It's silent for a long time.
***
Four years go by. Twenty thousand years go by. Florence is circling, not making a noise. It's so quiet. My whole life has been quiet. And now it's getting quieter. Every person in the universe I care about may be dead. And I wouldn't be able to tell. All I can hear is my breathing. And the occasional blip telling me Florence is still alive, still moving through the depths. I should go visit my aunt Betty. She sent another card. She sends one every so often. Years pass. It feels like a lot of them. Years, years, years.
***
I go deep down.
I ask myself:
Is he dead?
Is she dead?
Am I dead?
Four years go by. Florence is circling. It's day. It's night. It's summer. It's winter. It's summer. It's day. It's a storm that lasts eight hundred years.
***
Four thousand years go by.
A voice message from Tina comes through.
Hey,
she says.
Hey,
I say.
Four years.
Hey,
she says.
Hey,
I say.
How's Florence?
Is that really what you want to talk about?
I say.
For the last conversation we'll ever have?
Don't.
Don't what?
Don't be mad at me.
Okay.
No, really. You have to try not to be mad.
I thought you were coming here.
The harder I try to hide the self-pity in my voice, the worse it sounds.
Silence. Tina says nothing. Above the hiss and crackle of cosmic background radiation, I can still hear the boss. He has stopped singing. He says:
Here is just a special case of there. All heres are really theres.
I really miss you,
Tina says.
No, you don't. If you did, you'd be here. You wouldn't be there.
What's the difference if I'm here or there?
Now you sound like my boss,
I say. The boss has started singing again.
He knows what he's talking about.
Tina, he's dead. And in love with me. And crooning in the nude.
Why do you always want us to be...
Closer?
Yeah. How close is close? How close is enough?
Close enough for us to breathe the same air.
We're breathing the same air now.
You know what I mean, Tina.
Well, at some point some of the molecules of the air you're breathing were probably in my lungs. Eventually we'll breathe the same air, drink the same water, pass the same molecules through our bodies. Eventually.
You know what I mean. In the same room.
What's the difference? Anyway, we are in the same room now. A room the size of this galaxy. Why not a room the size of everything? Four walls around the cosmos.
The boss is still going at it. He's scrubbed, he's smooth, he's nude. He's singing.
"I've Got the World on a String."
"Fly Me to the Moon." Florence is circling.
But I can't see you,
I say.
You can't see me.
Right. I think of being together as being able to see you.
Is it all a question of optics, then? Of biomechanics? Of the properties
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