In Which All That Is Familiar Leaves Us

Jupiter is gone. Not a person named Jupiter or a pet named Jupiter or this place—the city of Jupiter, Florida. The actual planet. Gone. This happens at 9:23 p.m., while Megan eats at Town Diner. On the TV hung to the wall, NewsChannel 6 anchors Bob Woodall and Lily Cruz explain that the largest planet has mysteriously disappeared. They have video footage. One second Jupiter is there, the next it's quickly fading away until the planet is as thin as a projection, and then it's gone altogether, an extra void in their swath of universe. Hank, the diner's owner, turns the TV up as the two anchors rattle off random theories of what happened to Jupiter: Something enormous knocked it out of orbit. It was never there in the first place. It imploded due to gas. It got sucked into a black hole. God did something with it, as a warning. Satan did something with it, as an omen. Kim Jung Un.

Sam, the only other patron at Town Diner, wonders out loud how something that's been with them for so long could suddenly be gone. Something that was part of their sky, their history. He wears a faded flannel shirt with a tiny rip at the elbow revealing a rough, pink knob of skin. He sits at the counter, three stools from Megan, shakes his head, runs his hand through his hair, which has grayed considerably the last few months. His hand slides down the side of his face, over a wiry beard.

Megan knows where he is going with this. They had been married for a dozen years. He wanted more years. She just wanted more. It isn't your fault, Megan tells him again. There's nothing you could've done, nothing anyone could've done. Then she says, I was watching this science show where they talk about entropy. Disorder is easier.

Sam says he still doesn't get it, that he never will.

Hank carries his large body—tall, broad shoulders, giant belly, a wide face—to the front door. He locks it, turns the sign to "Closed," and then fixes himself on a stool behind the counter. He stares at the TV. Everyone in town knows this diner is all Hank has, all he's ever had. The smell of old oil and skillet-cooked meat and salty fried potatoes. The plastic-framed sepia pictures of old Florida that he bought at the flea market, hanging randomly on the walls. The faded-coral counter, the beige linoleum floor, the fluorescent lighting that mysteriously buzzes if you stand at a certain spot near the one bathroom with the broken paper-towel dispenser. And then Hank's pride and joy: the old-style jukebox in the corner, filled with bands like The Doors, Alabama, Pink Floyd, Cream. In the white room with black curtains near the station. A quarter for three songs.

Megan looks back at Sam and says, Sometimes it's nobody's fault, not in the normal way we think of that word. Like, if I threw a football at Hank's jukebox and broke it, that would be my fault.

You're damn straight, Hanks says.

But that's a simple definition, says Megan.

Don't say the heart wants what the heart wants, says Sam.

Okay, says Megan, then how about this: Is, say, Jupiter supposed to just labor through its orbit around the Sun, over and over, in the name of … of what? Obligation? Is that what it's all about?

Sam says, It shouldn't feel like an obligation. Megan says, Yes but sometimes it does.

Sam says, Well that's just sad.

Hank says, My Very Easy Method Speeds Up Nose-picking.

Megan looks at him like what the fuck. He says it's the new way to remember the planets, now that Jupiter is gone.

How about Mopey Vince Eats Mango Salad Until Nightfall, says Megan.

Many Vile Earthlings Munch Sandwiches Until Noon, says Hank.

Might Virgins' Eggs Make Savory Udon Noodles? says Megan.

Sam says, Maybe...