"SILENT RENDEZVOUS"
By
Bill Olson
© 1992 Bill Olson
The globe swirled gracefully, tenderly. It's aeriform body whispered gentle hues: The pastel brown was like a silent song caressing my weary heart, my barren soul.
In my ship, all was dark, silent. I was alone. For my entire life I had been alone, sealed within smooth, gray walls. I journeyed from star to star in search of a living soul. I was lost, with no voice to guide me.
The frame of the view port shimmered in the planet's glow, reminding me of my imprisonment. Yet, as she sang to me, as she danced in smooth motions across her velvet stage, I floated hopefully in the zero-gee. I felt a smile stretch across my lips. So odd did it feel: awkward, prodigal -- but welcome.
My
breathing calmed until the air only crept in...
and out… of my lungs. My
heart slowed. I felt the patient
beats under my jaw, heard the rumble of blood behind my ears.
Outside, my damsel stretched a veil from her soft brown and slender fingers. Her gown of silk and lace swirled from her body, which now floated naked, for my eyes only.
The veil and her gown became a golden halo orbiting her waist. In the sky, all but two bright stars and six faithful moonlets gave way in her light; they yielded, for this was her day. On her far side, her shadow sliced through the halo with surgical precision, and above the empty chunk sat the eight stellar specks, like diamonds.
I orbited for hours, glimpsing my angle's feminine curves, until they became narrower, eventually extant as only a mere outline. The sun faded below the horizon and she was gone. Only her halo remained, fragile against the brilliant stars now dominating the sky.
A vibration stirred the ship. I settled gently to the deck and saw a white glow from outside: The engines firing. I was accelerating at one-gee. The computer, over which I had no control, had discovered no life, so it was taking me away.
The smile left my face.
The cabin lights came on, harsh and blinding. I put my hand against the bulkhead; it was cold. Through the window, I could see nothing of the outside world, only my own dreary face staring back at me.
"Goodbye, fair lady," I whispered, but I didn't bother to wave.
--Eau Claire, Wisconsin
April 26, 1992