The sky is squeegeed cloudless. He’s seeing a sunbather on the side. I picture her breasts, skin burnt by tar paper on the roof. She has a heart condition, he says.
I chart the trajectory of satellites overhead, point to a blank spot in the sky. Russian, I say, maybe Chinese. I imagine what it’s like circling the Earth that way, seeing everything there is to see over and over. Does it make a swooshing sound when you fly past other objects bathed in the sun?
Down here, he’s accepted the chewy nature of my mind. I accept that he’ll never be happy with me alone. He talks of the sun woman, her tan skin, heart supported by ticking metal machines.
Bio: Nicholas Cook has work published or forthcoming in Camroc Review Press and New World Writing. He lives in New York.