In Any Lifetime

by Marc Guggenheim

He had tried to explain his work to her. He had a knack for conveying quantum physics in terms she could understand, but invariably he descended into a tangent and left her behind. She recognized the words he was using as English, but their arrangement made no sense.

The living room turned workshop is a muddle of whiteboards, stray dry-erase markers, and tangles of wire. It’s as if science itself exploded in the modest room.