The Big Bang

PHOEBE WILCOX

She wore a gown of burning sun so that the planets would orbit her, and carried a parasol of hammered tin, so that she would reflect them. Looking out the window of her cubicle it was obvious that no one was paying any attention to her strange apparel or to the weather or cosmic events. The night of the meteor shower, she went to work wearing an intentionally dangerous skirt, then without even thinking about it, fell in love with the moon and burrowed into his cloud cover

until it hurt.

Down the block, there was an explosion. Twisted metal scattered around the base of the psychic phone booth she used to call him. Her skirt was scored and torn by star-toothed saws. The earth was charred. And now

the receiver dangles. She pummels that useless atavistic receiver with meteoric fists, and yanks on its silver lizard tail; she can’t remember how to use it. She pushes buttons but it appears that there is no one home. She sits inside the psychic booth. She becomes a psychic phone. Fire smoked up the glass so badly, she can hardly see out of herself.

And Fiction is a phone book in her hands.

The story is too hot. It has to cool off.

The phone rings.

“Hello?” she asks the void, “Hello? Hello?”

There is no answer.

Not even heavy breathing.