Kristen Havens
In the Face of Such Hope
(The Giant Cookie We’ve Been Waiting For)
On the afternoon the first asteroid hits, a woman in the building across from mine orgasms for forty-five minutes. I am on my balcony, reading a sci-fi novel about Mars. The sound of their lovemaking bounces off the walls of our shared alley. Every so often I shuffle my pages so as to say, "Here I am, going about my business, not listening,” but I am caught up; it is impossible not to be. The lovers laugh; the woman’s voice moves around the apartment, her climax rising here, falling there, until it seems a traveling prank. When it’s finally over, I hear the shower running and realize half the chapter has finished without me; the red planet rises like an ogre on the horizon. I check my watch. Once again, I have lost time: hundreds of seconds have slipped away from me while eavesdropping on other people’s lives. I go inside to moderate my afternoon support group. So many heads in little boxes on the screen: so many people like me, needing purpose before the end, and then others who’ve looked and found and lost and now demand nothing less than true love immediately, like a klieg light in the eyes. That alignment. What can I say, in the face of such hope? Each of us is alone, but we’re together in loneliness: isn’t that enough? No. They want more. I’m burning, it’s like a burning, someone says. Another: I want that. And another: What do you think it means? Consumed by clues, signs, and suggestions, they examine everything in search of joy. I envy this: the way they wring meaning from every moment, rather than merely tumbling through time. Doctor, someone says. I listen again for the couple next door, but there is nothing, only sirens in the distance. What do you think? Nobody has ever demanded passion of me like that; I am no one's one and only. Doctor, they repeat. What are you reading? I look down. My hand is still on the cover of the old paperback. Mars pulses and writhes under my palm. I hold the book up so they can see. Hurry, the red planet hums to me. There isn’t any time. One of the men onscreen, a teacher, nods. It’s a sign, he says. A girl in the class I am teaching writes of a giant cookie that blots out the sun.
Kristen Havens is a writer living in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in PANK, Atticus Review, Monkeybicycle, Necessary Fiction, and Bending Genres, among others. She makes her living as a freelance IT contractor and developmental editor. She is currently writing a novel about technology.
