I woke up this morning to the news that the moon inexplicably tumbled from the sky overnight, and fell onto the town I was born in. I live seventeen hundred miles from there, but the northern hemisphere of that once celestial rock now sits on the horizon line staring at me through every window on the side of the apartment that I sleep on. The harsh shimmer of its silver and white surface is unwavering.

I slept through the night for the first time in weeks. Before that, my eyes wouldn’t stay shut for more than two hours at a time. The news said the sound of the town being decimated could be heard around the world, but it seemed like everything was business as usual. No massive media coverage, no news of tsunamis, no puff pieces about how romance will change with the moons unprovoked move from the sky—apparently the “moon fall” was just another Thursday night for everyone. So I joined them in their complacency and started my day.

I went about my regular morning routine. I buttered some toast, brushed my teeth, got dressed—regular human things. When the routine was complete, I walked outside to the car to head to work. That intense stare from the new grey neighbor on the horizon felt stronger, more focused. The television said it was ninety-four degrees this morning, but my hands, face, ears—every piece of skin that was exposed—felt good; they felt like a sixty three degree wind was escorting them to my car.

The drive was more pleasant than normal. The music came through clearer. I could hear bass lines that went completely unnoticed before. The normal haze over the road was gone too. I could see everything around me in a higher definition. My day was going good, despite the persistent gaze of the moon. Or was it because of it.

The sudden thought caused me to lose focus on the road. I drifted into the other lane while pondering the possibility of the lunar landing from last night. Suddenly a cacophony of mathematical concepts ricocheted around my head, stealing more of my focus from the road. And when the puzzle was complete and the numbers were aligned and the symbols were set, a bright red minivan with three children sitting in the backseat was six inches from a meeting with the front of my car.

To Be Continued…