It has been four months. Twenty-one weeks. One-hundred and forty days. Three-thousand, five-hundred and twenty hours. Too many minutes, a hell of a lot more seconds, the closer Curly gets the further he seems to be.

It used to be a big deal, you think. The whole going to space thing. Curly says it's no big deal, but you're pretty sure that in your great-grandpa's heyday it was impressive. You've seen videos of hoards gathering to watch a ship take off, to greet crews when they landed.

You miss your husband, your Curly.

But soon, months turned into weeks, and weeks turned into days, and days turned into hours. Which leaves you here at the launch sight waiting for you husband who would be easy to spot in the crew. He was always such a bright, tall, muscular man.

He only people being you, a plump, older women, a little boy with his mother, and another older woman, a more slim one.