Fifteen

Deralyn Owen

Fifteen seconds, she reminded herself. She looked it up last night after she found her husband’s jeans. It takes fifteen seconds, max, to die in space.

The woman was making her way home from work, flat black dress shoes landing heavily on the pavement. Her breath was constantly in front of her in the air, white vapor twisting around. I’m panting, she realized. Then: I’m running.

She stopped, abruptly, underneath a streetlight that was barely alive.

The sun had given up around thirty minutes ago, right before the woman had gotten out of work. The moon was new and lurking in the dark. Winters were wickedly sharp and bitter in this city with no snow to mask it. It was all wind and chill and dark days and darker nights. She looked down. Her shoes had a new scuff on them: she must’ve kicked something while running. Her dress pants were loose around the ankles and shifted with the wind. She zipped up her gray parka to give her some semblance of warmth. Her hands shook. She inhaled for five seconds, held the breath for another five, and released it for the last five. I’m a sputtering balloon, the woman thought and laughed. The streetlight above her went out. Slowly, she started to walk to where she knew her husband was waiting for her.

The woman’s husband used to be the woman’s high school classmate. Their first meeting: American History, two chairs to a table, by the door and up against the wall. The seats weren’t assigned, but the woman had chosen it for the practicality; she could leave class quickly and sneak in if she was even late, though she never was. The man had been there already, reading a book. The cover was pressed up against the wall. He wanted to avoid people knowing about him, she assumed. Incorrectly

Quietly, the woman had taken the seat next to him.

“You really shouldn’t be here, lady.”

The woman flinched. To her left, fluorescent store lights. Green and yellow and red. A woman in a uniform was leaning back against the glass, smoking. Her voice was rough from the smoke and the late hour.

“Yeah,” the woman turned toward the store worker. “But I live close by, so

I should be fine.”

The store worker snorted. “You shouldn’t tell strangers where you live, lady. You heard of the Moon-Killer?”

The woman nodded, her head heavy on her shoulders. Of course she knew. At first, the bodies had popped up slowly, an alleyway or two downtown with some poor soul coated in gray dust. Moon-dust Killer, the media had called him at first. The more coverage he got, the more people he killed; he lived for the attention, apparently. Killed for it. The woman had tried to ignore the news. She curated her life to be nothing but calm waters, and avoided the tides.

“If you know, then you shouldn’t be alone,” the store worker put out her cigarette. “Lots of people go to the moon around here.”

The moon. Alleyways had gotten boring, predictable, for the Moon-dust Killer, so he escalated. Bodies, diligently secured, started popping up on the moon’s surface. The “dust” was dropped from his name. Saved the newspapers ink, made for more clicks online.

“I’m going straight to my husband,” the woman gave the store worker an empty crescent smile. “Have a good night.”

She started walking again. Out of the corner of eye, the woman saw the store worker shake her head.

The woman’s relationship with the man had been a part of her curation. She knew that people would bother her about getting married, so she decided to preemptively address the issue. She asked the man out in high school not because she loved him but because he was blissfully boring. He turned in all his assignments on time. He got okay grades but not outstanding ones. She asked him, directly, where he was planning to go to college and what he was planning on taking. I’m staying in the city, the man had answered, unphased that the woman had initiated conversation for the first time. I’m going into finance. From there, it was easy: she suggested that they should date, and so they did. Four years later, she suggested they should get married, and so they did. An average man made a great solution, she thought.

There was gray dust on their doorknob.

Suddenly, her mouth felt chalky. The woman felt the new moon licking its powdery lips.

I could run, she thought. I’m fast. Then: Why would I?

She twisted the doorknob. It’ll only last fifteen seconds.

There was one lamp on inside their living room, next to the couch where the man was sitting. He was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. He looked calm, collected, and reliable. He always had.

“Hello, honey.” He greeted her with a smile. It wasn’t fake or genuine. It was a third thing that the woman had never been able to place.

“Hello, dear.” She closed the door behind her, a brief respite from the moon’s gaze.

Her husband motioned to the space on the couch next to him. She sat, obediently, and snuggled up to him. She could hear his breath rattle inside him.

“You know.” Her husband stated.

The woman nodded. She was not dumb. Even if she hadn’t figured it out last night after seeing the man’s moon-dust jeans, the doorknob would have alerted her.

“You’re the Moon-Killer.” Her voice was as level as the man’s. If someone were to look into their window, they would have thought they were two lovers sharing a slice of contentment with each other. But they weren’t lovers, not really; they were married, but not lovers. They were just people, the woman thought.

“Yes.” The man nodded, his chin messing up her hair. “Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“You’ve always been the reasonable type.” The man sighed, and the woman realized that he was disappointed in her. “You know that I have to bring you there now, right?”

“Yes.” Fifteen seconds, the woman reminded herself. Once he takes you to the moon, it will be fifteen seconds, max, until you die.

“Alright then,” The man said.

They were on the moon. The woman was still in the man’s arms. He breathed easily. She could’ve asked how, back in the living room, she could have asked why. He picked random people off the street and watched them, for fifteen seconds, max, fizzle from life. But she had no questions. He was going to kill her, after all, when she found out. There was no use making waves. She had

a good, clean run, the woman thought.

It was less than fifteen seconds.

He took her parka. The gray of the moon matched it perfectly. If you saw the dirtied coat from a distance, you would have assumed it was clean.

What a boring woman, the man thought. He threw the coat upwards, away from the moon, and watched it float.