I pressed my palm against the reinforced window in my bedroom. The glass felt cool, exactly like they felt in my previous life. The difference was that on the other side of this glass, there was an infinite and ever-expanding black canvas. It was filled with mostly nothing, and we knew mostly nothing about it. This put me in a mood.
I removed my hand and focused on my ghost-like reflection. My face glowed amber, a result of the Himalayan salt lamp on my nightstand. My eyes, naturally dark brown, were reflected on the window as small craters—appropriate given my state. I tried to grasp reality—that what I saw in front me took eighty milliseconds to process into consciousness, that all of boyhood was believing in invincibility.
Two small hands wrapped around my waist, gripped me comfortably.
“What’re you doing, baby?” my wife’s voice asked.
“Zoning out,” I answered, caressing the tops of her smooth hands.
“Beautiful out there, isn’t it?”
“That’s one way to see it.”
“Well, don’t mean to interrupt your meditation, Mr. Space Philosopher. Dinner’s ready in five. We’re having Mexican tonight.”
“Didn’t we have Mexican last night?”
“No, Guatemalan. There is a difference.”
I didn’t feel like spinning this into a big deal—I easily could have—so I said: “Thanks for letting me know, sweetie. I’ll be out in a bit.”
My wife kissed the back of my neck and I heard the satisfied patter of her footsteps.
Mexican, Guatemalan, it didn’t matter. Our dinners were at the mercy of a professional cooking staff. All the cooks appeared Mexican, though one was white for sure.
I selected a random point outside my window to home in on—probably an unmapped coordinate of space irrelevant to everyone except to me.
I fixated on the point with laser focus—a sea creature spotting his prey from a distance.
An announcement briefly stole my attention.
Attention passengers, this is Chef Johnny speaking! Tonight’s main course will feature enchiladas verdes, brown rice, black beans and flour tortillas so soft my dear abuelita would’ve had a cow! ¡Perfecto! For dessert, tres leches cake prepared by yours truly! ¡Delicioso! Don’t miss out! Bring your appetites and your maracas!
As I continued fixating on a piece of unidentified space which I knew to be much older than anything on Earth, I felt something inside me unspool, like a piece of fabric undone by someone pulling a loose string.
We were having Mexican tonight. We’d had it last night. I was sure we’d have it tomorrow night, and the night after. These decisions were outside my control, as were so many others. What little choice I’d had, I’d given most of it away. For what, exactly?
Then, for a split second—scarcely longer than a blink of an eye—I hated my wife. Hated her unequivocally. Gazing into space, into the cold oblivion none of us knew a thing about, something crossed my mind, what needed to be done. Drastic. My hands trembled.
I closed my eyes and touched the window again. The glass, of course, was cool, its cool familiarity assuaging my nerves.
I was resigned to Chef Johnny’s enchiladas verdes. And to whatever else was whipped up. In space, it is always night.
Mexican, Guatemalan, it doesn’t really matter. It’s always night in space. In space, your meals are determined by hired cooks. There are worse things.