He was lying on his back in the lot, in spot number twenty-eight (because even at night, all things have rhythm), watching the stars. He was thinking about string theory and a universe made up of sequences and series of vibrations, oscillating like the strings on his girlfriend’s guitar. He was remembering going to her concerts, to her gigs, feeling the vibration within and without his body. His chest resonated with the B string, the little hollow opposite his elbow quivered with the D. His lower regions quaked with the A. He was humming to himself, liking the idea that every fiber of his being had a note to call his own, lying in an empty parking lot, one with the universe.
He was lying on his back in the lot, in spot number twenty-eight (because even at night, some things are random), watching the stars. He was wondering what happened if something sang the wrong note, if the natural rhythm were to be interrupted. How could anomalies exist in a world of patterns? He shuddered at the thought of imperfections. What if he was a mistake? It could be that what he called a mistake was just a new piece of the pattern. Egomaniacal perhaps, but look: the order was restored. He wallowed in uncertainty, lying in an empty parking lot, wondering at his existence.
He was lying on his back in the lot, in spot number twenty-eight, watching the stars, when headlights swept across his body, and he heard a car engine slow, then cut off. A car door opening, slamming shut, the sound of high-heeled footsteps, and a shadow fell momentarily across his view of the cosmos. His girlfriend’s body settled on top of him, her head on his chest in spot twenty-eight, her feet clacking to a halt in stop twenty-nine. He suddenly felt very removed from the universe, from order, from rhythm, from anomaly. He no longer felt small. He stroked his girlfriend’s hair, lying in an empty parking lot, feeling human.