There is a bubble on my fiancée’s eyeball. Probably only a millimeter or two in width. It is clear. Looks like a permanent teardrop.
I take her to the eye and ear infirmary. The gray building stands over a river. A river filled with garbage and mob hits.
In the doctor’s office, the physician gazes into my fiancée’s eye.
“Whoa,” the doctor says, looking through her tool.
“What?” asks my fiancée.
“This isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen.” The doctor shakes her head.
“What is it?” my fiancée pleads.
The doctor is writing on a notepad. She tears off the sheet, hands it to my fiancée.
“You’ll need to see someone else.”
On the lined paper is a phone number.
We sit in the astrophysicist’s office. Waiting.
He stumbles in, later than he said he’d be.
“No need for introductions,” he mumbles. “Let’s just have a look.”
My fiancée opens her eye wide.
With a thick magnifying glass, the astrophysicist peers deeply into the bubble. He examines it, silently, for what seems like an eternity.
Finally, he sighs. “My word.” He scratches his chin. “It’s a universe.”
We stare at him.
“A new universe,” the astrophysicist mutters.
“What are you talking about?” says my fiancée.
He removes his glasses, looking at us, back and forth, at our eyes. “You have a Big-Bang-waiting-to-happen on your eyeball.”
We just look at him. We don’t understand.
“The bubble on your eye contains an entirely new universe. With its own physics. It’s own stars, planets, everything…”
My fiancée and I look to each other. I try to see inside of the bubble. The universe. Oh my god. It truly is there. Waiting to KERBOOM!
“What do I do?” she asks me.
I look back to the astrophysicist. He is watching my fiancée.
“You are a multiverse,” he tells her. “Or, you are the multiverse.”
He sits at his desk. Contemplating. Pondering.
The astrophysicist announces, “I’m just thinking… about when the ball of energy on your eye, um, for lack of a better word, explodes…”
In her seat, my fiancée shudders. I hold my hand on her shoulder. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper into her ear.
“Hmm, well, no,” responds the astrophysicist to my whisper. “No. It will be quicker than our minds can fathom. When the Bang occurs. We, of course, will be obliterated. Not a useless concern left behind. Which is not a terribly bad thing.”
He actually laughs.
“Imagine a soap bubble forming in another soap bubble. Growing, expanding. Bigger and bigger. Until – POP! And neither remain.”
My hand moves. Rubs my fiancée’s back. She trembles. The poor thing. None of this is her fault.
“You,” he realizes, pointing at her with interlocked fingers. “You are the multiverse. I know it. Astounding, and miserably sad, the multiverse destroys itself.”
“Okay,” I practically shout. “I think we understand.” To my fiancée, I say, “Let’s go.”
We exit the astrophysicist’s office. And leave the building.
Sitting on the sand. Under the sun, we feel too hot.
We don’t know what to do with ourselves. We don’t know when it’s going to happen. We’re just trying to enjoy our time.
I told her she was important. I meant it. The most unique thing in the universe. She is. I don’t believe there can be any questioning of that.
I say to my fiancée, “I always told you that you were special.”
She smirks, devilishly. “Too bad it’s true.” Her eyes still capture me. “Bet you wish it wasn’t.”
Together, we laugh. What more can we do?