The Correct Decision

She boards alone. I set the course.
No other passengers.

She chooses the seat nearest the observation glass, though the shutters remain closed.
In her hand is a small plastic animal.
A rabbit, missing one ear.
She says she found it in the station waiting room.
No child returned for it.
She turns it over in her palm and smiles once.
Briefly.

She says she has been married for twenty years.
Her husband did not come.
She says they never wanted children.

Outside, the ship passes a field of dead satellites.
She keeps speaking.
She says they had enough. A good apartment. Travel vouchers. Quiet evenings.
Her husband likes documentaries.
He falls asleep before the ending.
She says they are compatible.

The route passes through a meteor field. Minor turbulence.

She says it was the correct decision.

The rabbit fits entirely inside her fist.
She closes her hand around it when the hull shifts.
Then opens it again.

She says she never cared enough to insist.

The ship enters a silent zone. No transmission for seventeen minutes.
During this interval, she stops speaking.
She lifts the rabbit and smells it once.
Then looks at the reflection in the dark glass.

When the signal returns, she says:
My husband and I keep our toothbrushes in separate cups.

At docking, she leaves the toy on the seat.
She does not seem to notice.

I carry people. Their words travel with them.