Stars Are So Predictable
She watched him sip his tea, his hair standing up at odd angles having just woken up. She smiled over her own cup. He gazed out the window at the puffy clouds in the sky.
“It’s going to rain tomorrow,” he declared.
“You are always right, Galley.” She took her empty cup to the sink. “Does this mean you will tuck in early tonight?”
“Oh, hardly. I have charting and measuring to do. I still need to log the positions, even if I can’t see them.”
He settled heavily into the chair at the kitchen table and rubbed his eyes. “Why do you insist on calling me Galley? My name is Galileo. If my colleagues ever heard, I’d never catch the end of it.”
“Nobody here but us, Galley,” she teased. “They will name a star after you yet, you’ll see.”
“Your insistence on how famous I will be is nauseating. Scientists do not work for fame. They work for knowledge and for passion.”
“I would like some of that passion, Galileo,” she said before storming out of the house.
“I will never understand women. Stars are so predictable.”