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“You know what I’m fucking sick of? You two. You two and your fucking jobs. You’re constantly overworking yourselves and buying into this tech hustle culture bullshit. At my job, we work like normal people.”

“Our jobs?” I ask. “What do you mean? We have to work. That’s the only way we can afford…

The city wears away at all of us, wrenching open mouths full of a rage that explodes out of us, turns us into self-immolators or sacrifices to commuter trains or people who relentlessly scream our pain into the night.

“I was talking to the rest of the C-level team about this the other day and I wanted to share it with you. We are on a rocket ship together. And this rocket ship is headed to the moon. The moon is us going public. Which we will, if you all keep up your hard work and dedication to our mission.”

She heads back into the office. I stand outside in the cold, imagining myself working even faster, faster than the speed of light, working so hard I become even more of a blur, not sleeping, not eating, woman as machine. I picture Sasha’s insides, the pink of her womb, the eggs in her ovaries shriv…

Up above us, the sun blazes, that almost-perfect sphere, which will one day consume us, all of us, me, him, everything, engulfing the whole world in an endless white light before cutting to pure black, to absolute nothingness.