Untethered

The stars are streaks, no longer dots, as you tumble feet over head. You close your eyes and think now is probably the time you should look back on your life. 

You smile, partly to stave off the nausea and partly because of course this is how it ends. Since the moment they snipped that cord, you flung yourself away as far and as fast as humanly possible (and then some!), occasionally clipping someone and causing a spot of damage on your way out, you can admit. Would it have killed you to answer more of their calls? They’ll be sad that you’re gone but they’ll also think that this is so like you, and they’ll be right. 

Look, this wasn’t your plan. (It was a total accident!) But you can’t deny that it’s fitting. Here you are, your tether undone and smacking your helmet hard at irregular intervals (real subtle!) as you flip and flip and flip and wait for an end you’re suddenly scared might never come. 

You open your eyes one more time and, for an instant, see a bigger, greener streak. You realize that’s the Earth, so very small and only getting smaller. 

ROBIN ZLOTNICK

Robin Zlotnick grew up in Westchester and now lives in New England with her husband and the most perfect dog in the world. Her fiction has appeared in X-R-A-Y, Rejection Letters, and more, and her humor has been published in McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, The Belladonna, and elsewhere. Check out her work at robinzlotnick.com.