Her jealousies too absurd, wordlessly livid, she knits her knuckles, stares over at the empty seat, out to the shameless stars, jangles her hair across each solo hour, blank as interstellar space, straining her ears, and summons the power to size up her foe. How can it just go on forever? The plink of ice in gin and edgy patter of her calls to friends— at least the return of a comet can be predicted with accuracy. Of all the universe's potential infidelities, she endures the cruellest, a rival too intangible to fight. In the void she can confront only, lacking warmth or gravity, the unimaginable, dark distance between bodies.