The Embalmed Astronaut
It was a long time ago and I was just trying to get out of the rain. Off the street and under the awning. An old man who barely reached my knee held out a ticket and an open palm. I filled the palm with coins and he handed me the ticket. Out of the steaming city into a clammy dark. Somewhere a piano played uncertainly. Before me were odds ends, I wandered among them, unimpressed by the refuse of the seven continents. A coke can from Antarctica, half of Sir Hillary's last pack of cigarettes. In the back it was darker still, except for a spotlight illuminating a violet velvet chair. In the chair sat a figure in a pressure suit. Perhaps it's skin was bizarrely tinted due to the waxed used in reconstruction, or in the process of actually embalming flesh. Or that strange green hue was the same in life and in death.