He carried two folding chairs up to the rooftop. He always takes them one at a time, so it means two trips up the stairs.
A comet is passing — one that hasn’t come around in 180,000 years. Visible to the naked eye, apparently. Watching meteor showers from the rooftop together used to be their thing. Even after his wife died, he still sets out two chairs. The second one is for the binoculars.
The comet hung low in the western sky. Its thin tail stretched outward, dissolving into the night breeze. Through the binoculars, the head glowed in a soft, unfocused blur. The focus had always been off. She used to say, “That’s what gives it character,” and never once adjusted it.
The next morning, he ran into the middle-school girl from next door in the elevator.
“Did you see the comet last night? Apparently it’s never coming back — the orbit takes it right out of the solar system.”
He nodded, and went back to his apartment. He put the binoculars in their case, then headed upstairs to clear the chairs.
He picked up both at once. One trip down.