From: Lost To: The Universe

124.5539

Some facts are very obvious.

Facts such as: Earth's gravitational pull is nine-point-eight-zero-seven meters per second squared, are simply indisputable. That's the way it has always been. That's the way it will always be. The solid, steadfast facts of the universe attracted me to astronomy in the first place. Once you crack the mechanics, the result is the same every time.

Other facts, however, are not so obvious. Facts such as: how big is the universe?

Most scientists agree that the distance from Earth to the edge of the observable universe is some forty-six billion lightyears, an unfathomable distance at best. If written in miles, that number has twenty-four zeroes, which takes up almost three full inches on a page when written in twelve-point font. Even then, the universe is always expanding at a rate that is faster than the speed of light, meaning it is likely impossible that anyone will ever truly know just how insignificantly small and lonely our planet is against the vast emptiness of space.

For some reason, I find myself contemplating this fact as I watch Dr. Rodriguez's lips move, forming words that my brain refuses to register as sounds for some reason. I notice he has missed a spot when he shaved, just to the left of his Adam's apple, at which I can't help but feel amused. A Ph.D. in adolescent psychology with an emphasis in clinical therapy and he still can't manage to shave properly. I know this because his degree is hanging on the wall above his chair, a foot above his left ear like some kind of crooked halo.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.

My heart pumps loudly in my ears, nearly drowning out every other sound. The hum of the air conditioner. A distant bubbling from the small fish tank in the corner. The souffle of my shoes on the rough, threadbare carpet. In the midst of all this, I realize the doctor's lips are moving.

"Elliot, do you understand what I just said?" Rodriguez leans back and taps his pen rapidly against his notepad while gazing at me intently. I have a tendency to shy from meeting new people--I'm sure the good doctor would guess as much about me--but Julian Rodriguez takes that to a new level. In a word, he looks corporate: his collar-length black hair is slicked back with something that makes it far too shiny and he's sporting a three-piece suit that seems like it would be more at home on a perfume salesman at the mall than on a therapist--and, speaking of perfume, his cologne is slowly asphyxiating me in my puffy armchair. Death by Aude de Douche. I didn't expect to go out this way.

"Huh? Oh, yeah." I snap out of my stupor and realize that I've let his words stew in a pause that has reached the height of sufferable awkwardness. My palms are sweaty. They're always kind of sweaty--I'm one of those sweaty-palm guys--but right now I think they're sweatier than normal. I'd feel a little self-conscious if it weren't for the circumstances; I simply don't think it is physically possible right now.

"I just want to make sure you can grasp the situation, Elliot." Rodriguez intones. I get the sense that he keeps using my name to build some kind of rapport here, and I find myself determined to resist. The tapping continues, which I find irritating for some reason. To be completely honest, I find Dr. Rodriguez himself quite irritating, which is probably unfair because I've only just met him about an hour ago. Still, something about him really rubs me exactly the wrong way.

"Yeah." I repeated, unable to hold back a sigh and a somewhat longing glance at the door. "I heard you. You said that I have depression as a result of post-traumatic stress disorder."

I can't believe we made the forty-five minute drive to the suburbs of West Phoenix for this guy.

Tha-thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump.