After he’s seen the post-post-mortem glow of stars a few millionths of a second earlier than he does on earth, a few hours after his dessert of dehydrated ice-cream and playful mimicry, Houston we have a problem, one small step for man, and all that, after the white whir of cameras and the blue and silver slap of bulbs, after the last guests, official or friendly have left and the twins are tucked, tousled and kissed, after shutting out the lights on his bedside table, after a lifetime of preparation for his first trip to the moon, Jack, the astronaut, returns to earth and, wrapping his arms around her from the back, says to his wife “There are whole planets, whole galaxies, whole worlds where you and I don’t exist,” and, she, noting the wonder in his voice, asks if he had to go to the moon to discover what she’s always known simply lying beside him at night.