He was cold.
The irony of the practically infinite possibilities of space surrounding him and his total lack of options was not lost on Ted. The cold was really slipping in through the joints. Fucking econo em-suit, giving it to him was the cruelest thing they could have done.
The void was unsurprisingly empty, a horizonless and unending black. Stars sparkled weakly on the edge of Ted’s vision, nothing more than pale and pointless pin pricks of white.
He was beginning to feel lightheaded.
Ted couldn’t figure on whether the cold or lack of O2 would kill him first. Fucking econo suit didn’t even have a damn dial on it.
What would he be thinking about when he died, he wondered. A woman, probably? That’s the way it goes, right?
Who would it be? Brenda? Trish? Juanita?
Brenda wasn’t the prettiest. Wait. He remembered her smile and quickly recanted. She wouldn’t drive ya to stupid from across the room – that was all Trish – but she was present, ya know. Brenda lived more fully in the moment than any person Ted had ever met. What that meant on a quiet walk was special, beautiful. What that meant in the bedroom was spectacular, transcendent. He hoped for thinking of her.
Was this what it was like for ancient sailors walking the plank? Was it the same crushing openness and the same static pointlessness, just longer? Didn’t some of them not learn how to swim so they wouldn’t have to suffer this agony of hollow hope?
That fucking econo em-suit! He never should’ve put it on; he knew that. There was no way he wouldn’t have put it on; he knew that too.
So, there he spun, afloat in the void, trying to think about a warm, pretty girl in the cold, ugliness of space.