That’s Not Love, It’s Just the Cosmic Afterglow of the Burgeoning Universe

It can be easy to get them confused. I’ve been at this for forty-four years and just the other day I thought I found love when all I really held in my palm was a runny tablespoon of gluon plasma. Even scientists, with their curious glasses and lab coats like cups of spilled milk, can find it difficult to differentiate the devotion of a potential paramour from the rapidly expanding mass of space and time. They both emit the same odor, the scent of a mountain on the day it realizes it is about to die. They both make a sound like when the planet’s core first begins to doubt its self-worth. They even like the same movies, those classic heist films where someone has to assemble a team. A squad. A syndicate of men with unruly beards and fashionable hats. Each accomplice imbued with his own special purpose. The Face. The Muscle. The Demolitions Expert, always lustfully counting down the seconds until your heart explodes.