O

       n December 21st, 2049, when the red star Betelgeuse — 10th brightest in the sky — unexpectedly exploded in a blazing supernova, scientists told us we had nothing to fear, that our planet was too far away for this explosion to harm, much less destroy, life on earth, and to enjoy the show. The solstice had never been so spectacular.
             “A once in a lifetime occurrence,” asserted one talking head on the yak circuit.
             Another intoned, “We are thrilled to have a nearby supernova to study.”
             And so the scientific community was abuzz. And this was understandable. Not every day a giant red star blows up in your neighbourhood. Problem was, the supernova had lit up the night sky, a dull yellow glow that obscured the stars but didn’t quite duplicate daylight. Indeed, the night sky was expected to be lit up for at least several months. And while scientists said no physical harm would come of it, no one could honestly predict its psychological ramifications.
 

“So much for the Christmas lights this year,” my partner Felicia lamented as we stood on our snow-covered lawn and stared at the sky.
             “They still look nice,” I offered.
             Felicia shrugged. “It’s just weird. Makes me feel weird, and small.”
             She had something there. The supernova had somehow dwarfed us all, and turned our little worlds upside down. Hard to explain, but perhaps the lack of a black sky dotted with stars toyed with our psychic equilibrium. For instance, people were staying up all night to watch the sky, much to the detriment of pace and productivity, the two keystones of the New Society, as we called ourselves after the economic and societal convulsions of the past three decades. Many problems had been solved, but many still remained. Perhaps the supernova would shine a light on our emotional and spiritual deficiencies.
             My next door neighbour Peter waved to us from his window. His vintage Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater made us smile. Not that we found it charming, but we knew that Peter expected us to find it charming. He had lost something after his wife Izzy left him the year before, with a million other Earthlings, to seed the Martian colonies. It had become difficult to talk to this once chipper man, reduced to clichés about weather and hockey. His reaction to the supernova had been peculiar. He believed it was all a fraud, a great hoax perpetrated by subversive oligarchs overseeing the Martian operations. He believed that Betelgeuse was still intact and that giant Martian spotlights lit up the night sky.
 

Felicia and I went inside. We kicked off our boots and fleeces. Glittering in the corner of the living room, the hologram Christmas tree gave me pause. It never failed to move me when I looked at it. Perhaps it was the reach back into childhood, the memories, the twinkling nostalgia. But on this Christmas Eve, it felt different. It felt weird.
             “What is it?” Felicia asked as she wrapped herself in a blanket on the sofa and engaged the Empathic Multimedia Cube, or EMC, which offered classic Christmas music: Vince Guaraldi. Perfect.
             “I don’t know,” I said. “Things feel off.”
             Felicia chuckled. “No kidding!”
             I smiled at her. Of course. Things didn’t just feel off, they were off. I mean, a supernova next door. Nothing to sneeze at. And Betelgeuse gone. That was messed up.
             “Wonder how Santa Claus will manage tonight,” I said.
             “Geez,” Felicia said, “you figure it would be easy-peasy with the sky all lit up like that. Unless he needs stars to navigate.”
             “Hmm, never thought of that.”
             “Peter has totally lost it, eh?”
             “Poor bastard. Loneliness will do that.”
 

I wandered into the kitchen. I felt like a snack but was torn between something savoury and something sweet. I decided on hot chocolate and uttered the command to the brewing unit. In seconds a mug of frothy hot chocolate awaited me. I threw on a few miniature marshmallows. I hadn’t bothered asking if Felicia wanted a hot chocolate because she hated chocolate. I blew on my mug and glanced out the kitchen window. It was almost 10pm. It didn’t look like daylight out there, but it didn’t look like night. Christmas lights glowed faintly in the neighbourhood; nativity scenes and more kitschy displays were fired up. Someone tried to get their laser-drone show going, but the velvet loveliness of night was missing, stars, moonlit snow, magic. I carefully sipped the hot chocolate.
             Just then I saw Peter in his silly sweater hopping around the side of his house, kicking up snow as if playfully chasing someone. He had on furry white boots and these thick tinted goggles that made him look like more of a lunatic than he actually was. At one point he slapped his hands on his hips, gazed up at the sky and started laughing.
 

Felicia came up behind me, put her arms under my armpits, and squeezed.
             “Hey,” I said.
             “Hey.”
             “He’s really lost it.”
             “Peter?”
             “Yeah. Must be tough during the holidays.”
             "I think the supernova put him over.”
             “Don’t ever leave me for the Martian colonies,” I said, more firmly than I intended.
             Felicia squeezed me. “Now that you mention it.”
             We both laughed. I sipped my hot chocolate.
             “How about something stronger,” Felicia said. “It is the festive season.”
             “What do you have in mind?”
             She opened the liquor cupboard and selected a rare bottle of Canada Club.
             “The hard stuff,” I said.
             “Reminds me of Christmas with my grandpa and his brothers. They used to hammer a case of it over the holidays.”
             The EMC changed tracks. God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen came on.
             Felicia smiled.
             I glanced out the window again. Peter was gone. Felicia took out two shot glasses and filled them with the amber whisky.
             “Here’s to Betelgeuse,” she said, as we clinked glasses.
             “Here’s to Betelgeuse,” I repeated, taking the whisky down in one go, feeling thankful and sad and weird at the same time.