За разломом орла

           Ifanything,thereappearedtobemoreofthemthanwhenIhadfirstarrived. Thecorridors—sparselypopulatedatfirst—wereincreasinglybusy,andwhenweateunderthedome—undertheMilkyWay—wewerenottheonlydiners. Istudiedtheirlamp-litfaces,comfortedbytheirvaguefamiliarity,wonderingwhatkindsofstoriestheyhadtotell;wherethey’dcomefrom,whotheyhadleftbehind,howtheyhadadjustedtolifehere. Therewastimeenoughtogettoknowthemall. Andtheplacewouldneverbecomeboring,foratanytime—asGretahadintimated—wecouldalwaysexpectanotherlostshiptodropthroughtheaperture. Tragedyforthecrew,butfreshchallenges,freshfaces,freshnewsfromhome,forus. 

           Allinall,itwasn’treallysobad. 

           Thenitclicked. 

           Itwasthemancleaningoutthefishthatdidit,inthelobbyofthehotel.Itwasn’tjustthefamiliarityoftheprocess,butthemanhimself. 

           I’dseenhimbefore.Anotherpondfullofdiseasedcarp.Anotherhotel. 

           ThenIrememberedKolding’sbadteeth,andrecalledhowthey’dremindedmeofanothermanI’dmetlongbefore. Exceptitwasn’tanothermanatall. Differentname,differentcontext,buteverythingelsethesame. AndwhenIlookedattheotherdiners,reallylookedatthem,therewasnooneIcouldn’tswearIhadn’tseenbefore. Nosinglefacethathitmewiththeforceofutterunfamiliarity. 

           WhichleftGreta. 

           Isaidtoher,overwine,undertheMilkyWay: "Nothinghereisreal,isit?" 

           Shelookedatmewithinfinitesadnessandshookherhead.