Lavanya Vasudevan
The rocketman has lost his wedding ring, and he does not know how.
Fearful of the ill omen, and dreading the consequences, he makes up stories that he relates to his wife over a stuttering connection. He speaks of storms in space, the flash of disaster and the crackle of doom; of aliens, pounding at the port windows with their spongy arms, scrabbling and snatching with their undulating mouths; of ancient planets where the rocks weep turquoise gems, and the skies blur and spin gold over the craggy hills.
The rocketman's wife lies on her back on the cool oak of their kitchen floor (newly refinished), rubs her round belly under the soft white lights (each one of them a power-saving LED), and stretches out her toes until her swollen feet rest on the solid steel of the refrigerator door. They bought the fridge together, just before he flew out, thinking perhaps they would soon need a bigger one. She listens to his tales of imminent death and hairsbreadth escapes, and she gathers up his words, dripping with molten fear, glaring with ruddy confusion, aglow with garbled need, and fashions them, carefully, tenderly, into a band of sorts.
It will hold, for now.