What We Lost To Space

“Morning, babe.” 

She says it everyday despite the lack of mornings out here. Pushing off the walls with deftness, she floats towards me from the bunks. 

Such a shame, I think. I’ll never again see a more graceful body in space. The calm I feel tells me I never could have lived with what she did. 

“I have a surprise,” I say. “I fixed the coffee machine.”  

She squeals and stops herself with a handhold.

I fumble with the plastic syringe and hot water bag. The coffee pod drifts away, but I catch it right before it floats out of reach. 

Like everything in space, the coffee smells like gunpowder, but it’s something. I hand her the zero-g cup. She closes her eyes. Sips and moans. I wonder if she moaned like that for the Russian.

She hands the cup back and pushes off to the airlock window. “Thanks,” she says over her shoulder. “Better than ever.” 

She grips the window, presses her face close, and squints. Anyone else would think she was looking at the galaxy. The great void beyond. But I know better. She’s looking for him. 

“Sasha will be done with his spacewalk soon,” she says. “We’ll need to seal this section.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m prepared,” I say. 

She does not turn to face me. Disappointing. I wanted to see her face when I did it. I key in the override for the fail-safe mechanisms. As I take a sip of coffee, I watch one door close and one door open.

It’s nice she handed the cup back. I’ve already lost so much to space.