The Single Larry Ti, or Fear of Black Holes and Ken

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Salt-sweat dotted my forehead by the time I neared the last demonstrator in line, an old Asian woman with a hand-painted sign that looked too heavy for her. Indeed, her arms shook. The sign said NO SINGLE LARRY TI.

The benefits of globalization: bastardized spelling. I pictured a single white guy named Larry in a ragged t-shirt. I wanted to laugh—needed to laugh—but the look on her face stopped me. Fear was fear, and her thin pale lips and wide dark eyes with fist-sized circles under them screamed quietly. She even smelled like fear: adrenaline-sour sweat mixed with something antiseptic. I smiled at her, my hand brushing her shoulder as I whispered, “It will be all right. We won’t eat the Moon.”

Her spittle on my hand was warm, and I wiped it quickly on the back of her dirty gray blouse, a reflex. Cameras snapped, catching the back of my hand sliding against her rough shirt. A deep breath enabled me to quell the urge to run from the reporters. I fixed my eyes on the courthouse in front of me, a rounded faux-brick building with open windows that spiraled up its smooth outer surface.

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