Astronomy, Ray Charles, and The Magnet is off his meds...

Astronomers who know their onions say there’s no such thing as the centre of the universe. Doesn’t exist. Physical impossibility.?

End of story.?

The Magnet, however, knows different. At least as far as his own particular universe is concerned. The centre, of course, is wherever he is. Wherever he parks his celestial butt. Wherever he holds court.?

It’s a damned cosmological fact. No escaping it. As long as he’s in spitting distance of you, you’re hooked. Like a gravitational force. Locked in orbit around him. Unable to break free. Unable to take your eyes off him. Unable to head off into the dark blue yonder on your own.?

I can see him from where I sit on my somewhat less celestial butt.?

He’s not in a corner. Not against a wall. Not right by the window. But right in the centre of the room. Surrounded by his own little tribe of minor astral bodies. Invisible to everyone else. Visible to only him.?

He talks to them. Tells them of the wonders of a billion star systems. Paints verbal picture of the vast nebula that are guardians of the galaxy. All while sipping gently on his impressive interstellar latte.?

A million light years away, behind the bar, Little Italy looks on, sadly, and silently curses the unreliability of self-medication.?

The Magnet, she knows, is off his meds and off his head. She lifts a phone and dials a number committed to memory.?

Ten minutes later two large Guardians of The Magnet’s Galaxy enter the coffee shop, nod to Little Italy and walk to the centre of the universe. One bends down and whispers in The Magnet’s ear.?

He frowns at the interruption, pauses, then smiles. He stands up, full of importance, looks over to the bar and says; “My presence is needed elsewhere,” then he leaves the shop with the Guardians in tow.?

Little Italy prepares a small Americano and takes it to a tiny, waif-like figure sitting in a far corner, dabbing tears from her eyes. Eyes that follow The Magnet until he disappears from view.?

Don’t ask, whispers Little Italy as she passes me by. I zip the lip but silently wonder. She slips a fast glance to the box on the wall and I can feel the soft thud as number 130 hits the spinning surface.?

The curtains open. The spotlight hits Ray Charles. Sitting at a piano. Smiling that smile. Blind as a bat. Seeing everything. Singing I Can’t Stop Loving You.?

Sometimes you can’t see the love for the pain. Othertimes you can’t see the pain for the love...

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