This morning,
the comet from another star system,
drifted into the café like it had nowhere else to be.
It ordered a black coffee, no sugar, and asked if we had Wi-Fi.

I told it we mostly serve regulars,
retired teachers,
a man who writes haiku on napkins and leaves them under chairs, 
and a woman who believes her cat is the reincarnation of Carl Sagan.

The comet nodded, its icy nucleus steaming slightly in the sunbeam that slanted through the window like divine punctuation.
It said it had traveled light-years
to understand why humans cry during commercials for laundry detergent.

I asked if it had seen God.
It said, “Only in bumper stickers.” 

Then it asked why we name things after Greek myths and dead astronomers when we could just call it “Steve” or “That Glorious Speck of Maybe.”

I told it we’re sentimental like that,
we name hurricanes after our exes and comets after our hopes.
We build telescopes to find meaning and podcasts to fill the silence.

The comet sipped its coffee,
which it said tasted like nostalgia and burnt toast.
Then it left,
without paying,
but with a wink that bent gravity just enough to make the barista drop a spoon and whisper,
“I think I just saw the future.”