Arecibo: Dark Galaxies
The bottle of Palo Viejo sat on the table as an object of contemplation. A kind of religious symbol, something to be prayed to in order to calm one of life’s uncertainties. The bar was
barren. No tourists today looking for the observatory. None of the other astronomers taking a break from research. He sat clasping his glass with two hands deciding when and how he
would finish his rum:
1. intense jolt
2. sip it like a soothing acid letting the initial burn transform to numbness
The ceiling fan above his head pressed down the acrid August heat upon the sweat beads forming on his forehead. They were pushed together to form a tiny rivulet, which streamed down to his nose tip
as a hand unclasped the empty glass and wiped it away. Dehydration—absence—nothing.
That’s what his work was. That’s what he had been seeking: nothing. Its absence proving its existence.
© Copyright 2016 Mahoe Skye. All rights reserved.