According to multiple astronomy forums, we’d only see it for thirty seconds or so. I guess by heavenly bodies’ standards, that’s a long time. Lisa made it to the park about a minute before it was supposed to come into view.
“Sorry,” she offered, climbing from her car onto the hood of mine.
“It’s no problem,” I reassured her. “Didn’t miss it yet.”
The park was quiet the way it only gets around 2 AM. I guess no one else knew about the comet. Or they didn’t care.
“Once every seven hundred twenty years, huh?” She recalled.
“That’s what they say,” I nodded. “Don’t know how they’d keep track of it, but I guess that’s why I’m not an astronomer.”
It was fainter than I’d expected, a dim pixel with a dingy tail, moseying across an inky backdrop.
“How’re the folks?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Still with that guy.”
“That a good thing?”
“We’ll see, I guess.”
“And you?” I tried to keep myself from asking, but it was the only question bearing an answer I cared about.
“We’ll see, I guess,” Lisa repeated, sacrificing a precious second to glance from the comet to me.
I couldn’t stand that answer, the way she said “we,” like I’d be there to see, too.
She knew better than that.
The comet disappeared.
“Well,” she climbed down and went back to her car, “see you in another seven hundred twenty years.”
“Sure,” I laughed.
But I knew better than that.