Scientists tell us that everything in the universe is progressing towards an eventual state of equilibrium. If so, then all things will eventually be at rest. Entropy contributes to this order, which looks like disorder from the microscopic view of humanity. Perhaps if we saw the big picture – mountains eroding into the sea, glaciers drifting, melting, galactic explosions – maybe then we’d appreciate the end of the affair, the violent disintegration, as something more suited to the act of balancing an equation.
We met outside the bathroom, a first glance so heavily weighted with meaning it could not be mistaken identity. Lunch followed, at a sushi restaurant owned by Koreans or other cultures unsuited to owning sushi restaurants; I’d gone there with my girlfriend.
We don’t say much, concentrating on what happens next, the walk home, the awkward undressing which follows and leaves us naked and shy. She leaves then, nine months later, for good, and all is for the best, the abandoned disorder of the room a reminder of her penchant for standing on the edge of the wooden futon, examining herself in the mirror mounted outside the door. I was still taller than her. I may have picked her up once, setting her down gently on the floor or the mattress.
Haven’t I felt compelled to write this scene? Hasn’t she already disappeared? Questions I can’t answer, like reasons for half-life and decay, are the equilibrium returning to swallow me whole. Perhaps entropy is working. Though I stand alone at the intersection, I know something’s changed, something invisible, something I could see were I a mountain or an exploding galaxy, a supernova in slow motion.