99.7%
by J.M. Vesper
Named the asteroid after a god of chaos—
seemed dramatic in 2004
when it was just math just maybe.
Now it's 2029
on my roof with Jim.
He brought his telescope.
I brought nothing.
Too old to run.
His knees.
My everything.
The experts promised 99.7% certainty
which means probably
probably
probably
a word that loses meaning
when you're watching your epilogue
cross the sky 30 kilometers per second.
Jim's hands shake on the telescope.
Not fear.
Parkinson's.
Ten years.
Won't live to see 2032 anyway, he says.
I think: Then why are we up here?
He finds it.
Just a dot.
Brighter than it should be.
We pass the bottle.
His daughter called yesterday—
first time in six years—
asked if he was scared.
He told her no.
Told her he loved her.
Okay, she said.
The asteroid is beautiful.
I look.
It is.
Like a star
but moving.
Like a promise
being kept
or broken—
hard to tell which.
We drink.
Watch it pass.
30,000 kilometers away—
closer than satellites,
farther than anger.
It misses.
Jim starts crying.
I ask him why.
I don't know, he says.
I really don't.
We sit there.
The bourbon empties.
The sky lightens.
The phone doesn't ring.
J.M. Vesper writes speculative poetry and fiction. His work has received a Pushcart Prize and Shirley Jackson Award nomination, and has appeared in Variant Literature, Intrepidus Ink, Not One of Us, and elsewhere. A former special collections librarian, he currently teaches high school English. He holds a B.A. in Creative Writing and an M.A. in Teaching. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona, with his wife and two dogs.
