When the Moon Hits Your Eye

by John Scalzi

“Well, this was a day,” Boone said to his wife. He began to undress. “So I’ve been reading,” Angie said. She looked over to her husband and turned the tablet around. “I particularly like this headline from the New York Times. ‘We Will Work the Problem in Front of Us.’” “I didn’t think that one up.” “I know this. You might owe Andy Weir a royalty payment for it.” Boone didn’t know who that was, so he ignored it, shed his button-down shirt and dropped it to the floor. “I know you’re not just leaving that there,” said Angie, turning the tablet back around. Boone looked over to his wife, exasperated. “I’m the president of the United States, you know,” he said. “I’m the president of the United States and I’ve been dealing with the end of the world all day long. I think I should be able to leave my shirt on the floor.” Angie looked over the tablet at him, silent. “Fine.” Boone reached down, picked up the shirt, and carried it and himself into the adjoining dressing room. “Thank you,” Angie said, in a singsong private voice, eyes back on the article she was reading. Boone came out of the dressing room, in pajamas and a robe. “We have staff, you know,” he said. “They would pick up a wayward shirt.” “If you dropped a shirt with the expectation that someone else would pick up after you, I would divorce you instantly,” said Angie. “Oh, that’s what you would divorce me for,” Boone said. “Out of all the other possible things.” “The other things were human failings,” Angie said. “And st...