The Mountain Observatory – Part 2: Dawn Shift

"It's welcome," said Alma. "Very."

The kiss was cold-nosed and warm-lipped, and tasted of chocolate. Pablo's hand, gloved, rose to her cheek, and she laughed softly and pulled the glove off with her teeth. His bare palm was warm. She kissed it. Above them the Milky Way arched, faint and enormous, and the telescope ticked gently as it tracked a distant star.

"We have to finish the exposures," said Pablo, a few minutes later, laughing against her forehead.

"We do."

"Three more. Then the automatic sequence takes over."

They finished them together, hands brushing at the controls, with an excitement neither wanted to name. At six the sky began to pale. The cloud sea below turned gold, then rose, and the shadow of the volcano stretched in a long blue triangle across it.

"I have a room," said Pablo, shy. "Just there. For the day sleep. It's small. It has a heater."

"I'd like to see it."

"Are you sure?"

"Entirely."

The room was tiny and warm, with a narrow bed, thick blankets and a window that framed the sunrise. They undressed slowly in the dim gold light, laughing at the layers, thermal socks, scarves and zips, and in the warmth under the blankets their love-making was gentle and unhurried. The telescope hummed far off. The sun climbed. Outside, the world turned from night to day without anyone noticing.

At noon she woke to find a cup of hot chocolate on the shelf and Pablo asleep beside her, his hat still on. She smiled and lay watching the light move across the ceiling.

Her article ran a week later. The headline was Above the Clouds, and the final line read:

The best thing in the observatory was not on the telescope. I'm going back for the March shift.

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