A man walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender nods and comes back with something sour and burning and greenish and the man pours it down his throat and, his voice like bending metal, asks for another. He drinks like this all evening. For hours. At the end of the night the bartender hands him his tab. The man reaches for his wallet, opens it and pulls out a flat galaxy. Drops it on the table. It shines there and for a moment nothing happens. Then, slowly, an assortment of coasters, matchbooks and empty shot glasses scattered across the bar quietly start sliding their way towards it because, as I’m sure you know, flat galaxies have a subtle pull to them. The bartender carefully picks up the rare celestial currency. It is lighter than he thought it would be. He turns the galaxy around in his hand. It is flat and smooth but inside it things are slowly moving, almost imperceptibly, a million sparks of a million colours all caught in a lazy cosmic ballet. It is beautiful. He holds it up to the light, studying it, making certain it’s not a fake.
“I’m not sure I can break that,” he says.
“Keep the change,” the man replies, getting up and putting on his jacket.
“Much obliged,” the bartender says.
The man walks outside and stops at the edge of the sidewalk, letting the fresh air feel his face. The world is spinning a…
