After she left, the apartment was so dark and cold. I started taking steamy, candle-lit bubble baths at all hours. “Claire said it wasn’t my clothes, or the way I spoke, and that I certainly was kind, and had interesting anecdotes, and was in the top ten of kissers, at least, but these things happen, not everyone fits, you know.” 

Pluto just sat there at the edge of my tub nodding, kind of grinding his post-planetary moan into the tile, just knowing how it is sometimes, just being right there with me. I stepped out of the bath, and let him have his turn, the water was still hot, and I scrubbed his back with a loofah, and kissed the top of his head, and told him we would be all right. It was confusing, not being who we thought we were, but we’d get through it.

That’s what I told Pluto, the first week, at least we had each other, but it was tough ‘cause Claire moved out fast and left so much of her shit around, so many traces. Like I couldn’t open the pantry or medicine cabinet without one of Jupiter’s moons falling out. 

Neptune’s winds got caught up in the curtains and they would just flutter and flutter. 

Uranus was a drunk, his bottles of red wine were all over the place. I knew they were his. He couldn’t even walk straight. They weren’t Claire’s. She had quit after “the bad night” six months ago. 

Mars left the dust of his tumultuous storms all over the bed sheets. I couldn’t wash them. I rubbed my face into them, the pink sunrise of Maggie’s waking. It kind of made me cough. But I didn’t care. At least I knew I was still alive.

One of Saturn’s rings was still on my finger. I would box it up, send it back to Claire, so she could give it to her next girlfriend, maybe. 

Venus left a bit of her glitter in the bottom of my underwear drawer. 

At least you still have the Earth, Pluto said by the way he nudged my foot when I wouldn’t get up from the couch after the second week. But the Earth was shaking all the time, trying to buck me off. 

And Mercury, his scorch still throbs and pulses. 

Pluto gets it. We order dumplings from a different place, one that won’t ask any questions and we cry in the bathroom listening to 69 Love Songs. We reminisce about her warmth. We bitch about her flare-ups.

In the end, even Pluto leaves. He says he’s done all he can for me and he’s got other places to be.  His moons need him. He says I’ll find my own way, but I know how it really is, how he still orbits the sun, how he means nothing to her now, how terribly he sleeps, how in 248 years, we’ll still feel her pulling.