Night Shift at the Observatory

The comet was supposed to appear on the eleventh night. On the eleventh night, clouds rolled over the summit and the dome stayed shut.

Nora and Imran had been sharing the night shift at the observatory for three weeks. They were colleagues of equal rank and opposite temperaments: she was precise and impatient, he was messy and maddeningly calm. They had argued about calibration, music, the correct way to make tea and whether Pluto deserved its demotion. They spent ten hours a night together in a small, warm control room full of humming screens.

On the twelfth night the sky cleared. They opened the dome and the cold rushed in, and above them the stars were so thick and bright that Nora forgot, for a moment, to breathe.

No comet.

They sat outside on the steps of the dome wrapped in coats, drinking tea that was too sweet, and watched the Milky Way wheel slowly overhead. Imran named the constellations in a low voice. She leaned against his shoulder for warmth, and he went quiet.

'Imran,' she said. 'If the comet comes tonight, we'll miss it.'

'I know,' he said, and kissed her.

They went back inside and lowered the lights. The control room was very warm and the screens hummed softly, and for the rest of the night neither of them looked at the sky at all.

At five in the morning, a faint smudge of light appeared low in the north-east. The telescope recorded it automatically. They found the data at noon and laughed until they cried.