Love in the Key of Doom Metal

Last week we connected through the space station dating app. I stalked his profile. Stephen is single, male, and heterosexual. He kept his dorm in order (there were folded standard-issue clothing on the shelves behind him). He seemed to enjoy classical music, doom metal, and reggaetón. Little did I know that these were key clues that would come to haunt me when we met.

You see, in the vacuum of space, terrible things happen to good people who make poor dating choices. I am Marina Kowalski, a hydroponics engineer third class. I was about to discover that some musical preferences are major red flags. These red flags are visible from three solar systems away.

The thing about Stephen is that you might misinterpret something about life aboard Station Omega-7. I must pause to explain something crucial. When someone says they enjoy “doom metal,” you don’t immediately think, “Ah yes, this person has achieved perfect harmony.” You might think of something else entirely. Instead, you think they have not achieved harmony with the crushing existential weight of floating in the void. No, you think, “How nice, eclectic taste.” This was my first mistake. In space, first mistakes have a tendency to compound. It’s like interest on a loan shark’s credit card.

But let me back up. The dating app—ChronosMatch, tagline: “Love Transcends Time Zones”—had seemed like a godsend when Command installed it last month. Fifteen thousand souls were trapped in a metal tube hurtling through the cosmos. Most of us hadn’t seen a new face in eighteen months. The psychological profiles indicated declining morale. There were increased incidents of people talking to houseplants (guilty). One memorable case involved someone attempting to marry the coffee machine in Bay 7.

Stephen’s profile picture showed him in standard-issue coveralls. The tool belt was perfectly arranged. He had a regulation smile that said, “I am mentally stable and follow proper hygiene protocols.” His bio read: “Acoustic technician. Enjoys long walks through the observation deck. He likes candlelit dinners when the power grid allows. He also enjoys exploring the mysteries of the universe. Looking for someone who appreciates both Beethoven and Bathory.”

I should have googled Bathory. The hydroponics bay had been having connectivity issues all week. I was distracted by a particularly aggressive strain of zero-g tomatoes. They seemed to be plotting something in Greenhouse 12.

Our first date was scheduled for Thursday, 1900 hours, at Cafe Cosmos in the civilian quarter. I arrived precisely on time. Punctuality is one of the few virtues still possible in a place where the sun rises every ninety minutes. I wore my best off-duty jumpsuit and the earrings my sister had smuggled aboard in a care package.

Stephen was already there, and this should have been my second warning sign. Not the punctuality—that was admirable. No, it was the fact that he had somehow convinced the cafe’s sound system to play music. It was the musical equivalent of a black hole consuming a symphony orchestra. Meanwhile, someone screamed about Norse mythology in the background.

“Marina!” he called out, waving enthusiastically over the sonic apocalypse. “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of curating tonight’s playlist!”

The other patrons in the cafe looked like they were experiencing various stages of the grieving process. An elderly man sat in the corner. He appeared to be writing his last will and testament on a napkin.

“It’s very…” I searched for the right word. A guitar solo played overhead. It sounded like the heat death of the universe. “…bold.”

“Thank you! I thought we’d start with some Sunn O))), transition into a little Bathory—that’s the band I mentioned in my profile—then maybe cool down with some classical funeral marches. You know, Chopin’s Sonata No. 2. Death metal and death classical—it’s all about thematic consistency!”

This is when I noticed that Stephen’s eyes had a particular gleam. It was the kind of gleam you see in people who collect vintage medical equipment. It’s also seen in those who know exactly how long someone can survive on recycled air. They also know how long one can live on protein paste alone. (The answer, incidentally, is forty-three, but I digress.)

“And then,” Stephen continued. His voice rose with excitement. A particularly aggressive bass drop shook the artificial gravity generators. “We finish with some reggaeton! But not just any reggaeton—experimental dark reggaeton from the underground scene on Europa. It’s mostly about the existential horror of colonial mining operations, but the beat really makes you want to dance!”

I realized then that Stephen wasn’t just eclectic in his musical tastes. Stephen was completely, utterly, magnificently insane. And the worst part? Three hours later, as we swayed to what could only be described as “Despacito” remixed by H.P. Lovecraft, I found myself thinking: “You know what? This is still better than another evening alone with my increasingly sentient tomato plants.”

That brings me to today. It’s six dates later. I am writing this from the medical bay, where they’re treating me for what the doctor diplomatically calls “acute auditory trauma.” I prefer to think of this as “the price of love in the 23rd century.”

The tomatoes, by the way, have started humming Bathory. I’m not sure if this is an improvement or if I should report them to Security.

But Stephen? Stephen brought me flowers from the hydroponics bay. They were my own flowers, technically stolen from my workplace. He asked if I wanted to hear his experimental fusion of Gregorian chants with death metal. It was played entirely on repurposed life support equipment.

Reader, I said yes.

In space, no one can hear you scream. But they can definitely hear you fall in love. This is especially true if your boyfriend has rigged the PA system. It broadcasts station-wide in the key of existential dread minor.

End of Entry 1 – Personal Log, Marina Kowalski, Hydroponics Bay 7 Note to self: Download ear protection app before next date Secondary note: Check if tomatoes have gained sentience or if this is just space madness Tertiary note: Research whether it’s possible to love someone AND their terrible taste in music simultaneously Final note: Ask Stephen if he knows any nice, quiet death metal for our wedding ceremony