A Black Hole Sun

The sun doesn’t feel the same from the cement steps of my front porch. I wander out every day, lured by the warm, comforting way the light hits the pavement. I imagine how toasty it feels when I’m sitting inside my parked car, and sun beats down on the roof. I even walk a few paces down the driveway, hoping to replicate the feeling, but there’s a certain emptiness in sunny afternoons these days. One that not even cradling a cup of steaming coffee can fill. I still sit in my car sometimes and relax against the leather seats. For a few moments, I imagine I’m poolside, my closed eyes a tangible barrier between the stamping feet of children running carelessly along the edge of the pool and the warm, cozy nook that is the mind in midday in the summer.

I repeat this process one morning, a fresh cup of coffee in my hands. I walk out onto my porch and scan the other porches for people seeking the same sensation. I’m not alone today. Across the street, a blonde woman is sitting on her front stoop. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top, though it’s surely too cold for both. Her legs are stretched out onto the pavement, allowing the sun to blanket her skin up to her upper thighs. I’m far away, but I swear I see goosebumps. I think she sees me looking because she lifts a hand timidly, waving in the way people do when they’re not sure if you’re looking at them or not. I wave back. She smiles. In unorthodox fashion, I walk to the start of my driveway.

“It looks deceivingly like summer,” I yell, completely out of character. I stick my hand out into the breeze for emphasis.

She nods. “It feels like it must be summertime already.”

“I think I’m worried that summer will pass me by without me knowing,” I boldly confess, empty hand sliding into my jean pocket.

She nods languidly. “I worry about missing fireworks.”

The distance between us, far more than six feet, offers the kind of privacy that allows one to tell secrets without feeling like the other really heard them. Like you’re talking to the air, but get a nod in response. A lonesome that feels less alone.

We continue like this for the next few minutes, each blurting out an uncomfortable thought and the other continuing on as if nothing was said.

“People are dying, but I’m worried about the concerts I might miss.” These words left my mouth before I could stop them. Her mouth changed from a timid smile to a small “o”, lips parted. I start to retreat back up my driveway, walking backwards. I think that maybe if I walk slow enough, she won’t notice until I’m gone.

“Do you feel guilty about that?”

Her voice is carried by the breeze a little west, barely reaching my ears. What could have sounded cold and accusing was warmed by the sun and fell upon my ears like the slow drip of honey.

“Maybe I do. It doesn’t feel quite real though. Not real enough to feel guilt over, anyway.” Maybe it was because I had reached the last sip and a half of my coffee, or maybe I had stood under the delightful lamp of the sun for much longer than my usual five minute retreat, but the admission of feeling like the 9^th planet pushed its way out of my mouth, open for criticism.

“I’m caught off-guard by barking dogs now,” she admits, gliding past my statement. I’m grateful. I start to listen the sounds around me. In the far distance, there is a dog yapping. Much closer there are birds chirping. I don’t remember these many birds chirping in the last three years I’d lived in this house.

“The birds have reclaimed their land,” I note, the song of a bluebird ringing around me, harmonizing with the sound of rustling leaves.

The wind grows stronger now.

“Come closer,” she yells, hand cupped over mouth. She’s standing now. She hasn’t left her stoop, but she’s standing, rearing to go. “I can’t hear you.”

I move wordlessly. I take a few steps and I’m nearing the end of the driveway.

“It’s still six feet,” she continues.

I finish my cup of coffee. Suddenly I feel chilly. The parts of my body that are clothed feel incredibly warm, while the unclothed, my arms and legs, tremble slightly. I can see her better now. She’s strawberry blonde, young, blue eyes. She’s bouncing her leg. Itching to come closer, maybe. She wraps her arms around her body after another strong gust of wind.

“It’s getting pretty chilly out here,” I remark. My fingers curl tightly around my mug’s handle.

“It’s actually gotten warmer since we’ve been out here.” She corrects me, like she’s trying to convince me to stay. She saw my trepid walk backwards to my porch, and has noticed that my coffee cup is empty, and now fears that I’ll slink back into the timeless four walls that I came from.

I nod and take a sip from my empty cup. Nothing comes out but it’s reassuring to her. There’s no reason I’m still out here. We can’t really talk, our voices floating every which way, down the street. I don’t reap the benefits of her genial smile or get to feel the softness of her hair. She can’t take my coffee mug inside for a refill. So now we’re just standing. Teetering back and forth.

I’m overcome with the question of whether or not pleasantries still exist in this time. I decide that even aliens should be nice to fellow aliens, lest they ever need resources from the neighboring planet. I gesture back to my house, which now appears just as foreign as anything else.

“Back to the black hole,” I jest. I look back at the sun and conclude that summer hasn’t arrived yet because all the warmth has been mercilessly sucked in by the empty voids we call home.