Let’s imagine for a moment that the Sun has a great big cock.
He stalks his erstwhile and capricious love, the Moon, as she dances around the solar system. Planets obscure his view of her delicious curves and craters. They jockey for his attention, especially the flashy Saturn and her ridiculous rings, but he has eyes for just one celestial body.
Every few years, the Sun and the Moon pass tantalizingly close to each other. He tries to reach her with his extended member, but she flits away. In sexual frustration, he explodes in bright flares that light up the heavens, but make little impact on anything.
Once every century, however, she comes close enough to touch. To embrace. To mount.
She may look old and dusty from the outside, but inside, she burns. The Sun remembers that warm wonderful feeling from the last time. He could swim in it for a millennia. With a burst, he thrusts himself in.
The Moon moans her acquiescence, like a great rumbling from her inner chambers. It hurts a little when he first enters her, but that’s replaced by wet waves of pleasure. A great burning sea, threatening to drown them both.
The endless chasing through the sky manifests itself in every shared groan of passion. They won’t let each other go. Not this time.
If they had mouths, they would shout.
Here on Earth, it’s a party.
There are kitschy glasses, eclipse-themed cocktails, banners with bad puns on them. A reason to celebrate for a beleaguered human race. No politics. No nationalism. Just a once in a lifetime occurrence. Blink and you’ll miss it (or so they thought).
Everyone watches the time all day, waiting. When the moment arrives, the collective world steps outside. Bleary-eyed office drones rub monitor glare out of their eyes. Waiters and kitchen staff wipe their hands and light up cigarettes. Meetings are called short and everyone gathers by the window.
It looks like bad special effects at first. Bright sunlight crudely replaced by gray darkness. It’s not that impressive. People turn away from the windows. They head back to work. Kitchen staff flick cigarette butts at a wall and yawn.
The few that stay outside glance at their phone or their watch. Is it supposed to take this long?
Somewhere, a scientist is freaking out.
The first few weeks are the hardest. The darkest.
Ambitious entrepreneurs react to the constant darkness as a money-making opportunity. Batteries are sold out across the world. Flashlights, lamps, any light source is bought up and then resold at inflated prices.
Crops and animals are dying, but as apocalypses go, this wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t even the worst one this decade.
People strap little lamps to their foreheads and the world suddenly resembles the inside of a mine. Streetlights are on all the time now. Stadiums turn their lights outwards so occasionally you could pass by a neighborhood bathed in artificial day.
Once back in the darkness, you might look up, at the Sun and the Moon locked in carnal embrace and wonder if this is it, this is how’s it going to be for the rest of your life. Thoughts quickly spiral in the darkness.
At some point, she’s had enough. She shifts just a little, rotates away from his desire. That breaks the spell. The Sun inches away from her in a spray of solar dust, a comet’s tail of light and thought and emotion.
Down on Earth, humans squint at the newfound light. Jumpers on bridges stop and reassess. Old people run naked into the streets. The sun’s hot rays never felt so good.
Until next time, my dear.
Elad Haber likes to steal Arcade Fire lyrics for his bio. His stories have been featured most recently at Space and Time Magazine, Your Dream Journal, and Truancy. You can follow his ramblings on twitter @MusicInMyCar or on his website at eladhaber.wordpress.com.