Phillip Henry, the man with two first names, fanned himself with the wedding program he folded accordion-style ten minutes ago before sitting down to watch his only daughter get married. He wondered how in the world he let her talk him into this fiasco. The air was thick with the sweet-sour smell of frying oil as tiny droplets of grease exploded above the hundreds of fryers lining the boardwalk. The wedding was carnival-themed, spreading down the beach where food trucks and street performers entertained the guests. Twenty pounds underweight and wearing nothing but swim trunks, Phillip Henry still felt his body boiling under the heat of the rising sun.

It was 10:56 am on a Thursday, which was a strange day for a wedding. It was a ridiculously grand affair, for all that money was meaningless at this point and only twenty-five people actually replied to the popcorn-scented invitations. At the bequest of the bride, now dressed as a showgirl in phoenix-colored feathers, everything was bigger. The elephant ears were the size of actual elephant ears. Diaphanous clouds of cotton candy swelled to towering cumulonimbus supercells of spun sugar. The ring bearer rode a unicycle, contortionists served as human chairs, and the officiant, naturally the barker of this wayward carnival, wore a brilliant red suit with gold epaulets and a black silk hat. Phillip tried not to think about where his daughter scrounged twenty-five contortionists willing to be sat on for half an hour and someone capable of actually riding a damn unicycle. 

She always was persistent. 

He turned his attention to the groom. The poor boy was dressed as Icarus in a white sheet toga and gold sandals. He had only agreed to the date for the same reason all of the other guests agreed to come.

There was no other option.

Then again, Phillip Henry thought, who am I to judge how people spend what is left of their time?

Most distracting, of course, was the heavy scent of bacon, a deep savory odor that permeated the thick miasma of deep-fried Oreos, dill pickles, and chili corn dogs slathered in toppings. The smell hung, dripping like olfactory cobwebs, on every body gathered at the coast. Everyone recognized the origin of that smell, but refused to admit it, a conspiracy of silence. Worse, no one wanted to admit they secretly liked it.

Leaning on the torsos of their human chairs, the guests tried not to notice how their thighs stuck together with the contortionists’ or the sticky slurp of sweat each time they tried to swivel or shift to avoid the increasing heat. Even the seagulls had long since gone quiet, evaporating into the sky. The sun crept over the edge of the horizon, turning the ocean into a hazy edge of steam. Once brilliant red and orange, the golden orb appeared bulbous and pulsing, its rhythm in perfect syncope with the waves. 

Pulse.

Whoosh.

Pulse.

Whoosh.

The clock struck 10:57 am. 

The carnival barker raised his arms and forced a smile through the sweat dripping down his neck. His face was red and blotchy, the fatty pockets of his jaw starting to bubble.

“Dearly beloved…” He murmured around the pain.

Phillip Henry, in a moment of delusional clarity, wondered about futility. He wondered why no one had bothered to see the warning signs. Wasn’t it odd that the Northern Lights, the finger paints of the gods, were suddenly visible in Florida? Wasn’t it weird that fiber optic cables were suddenly disintegrating, causing technology blackouts? He swallowed thickly, his throat burning.

Still, he thought ironically, she did manage to pull this wedding off, eh?

The minute hand edged forward to 10:58 am.

Phillip Henry’s thoughts spun faster and faster, as if the incredibly rising heat were churning his thoughts in a cerebral centrifuge. He struggled to breathe. His heart strained against his chest.

The clouds of cotton candy melted into rain puddles on the sand. The unicycle’s frame bent awkwardly, sending the ring-bearer sprawling onto the ground.

Phillip Henry watched, in a dissociative horrified sort of way, as his daughter collapsed at the feet of the man who would never be her husband. A wave of heat rippled over the crowd basting them all in a light so violent, it stole their breath away. He was dimly aware of his cousin vomiting over the contortionist in front of her, causing that one to collapse and throw his mother into the pool of mess. One by one, bodies wilted onto the pile. His vision blurred. The program fell from his limp fingers in a flutter of ashes.

That smell, that horrible smell of bacon, was suddenly replaced by the scent of burning beef, of steaks cooked too long on the grill and starting to char.

Time crept to 10:59 am.

Explosions lined the boardwalk as food trucks collapsed beneath the heat. The smell of scorched metal and flames replaced the smell of cinnamon sugar. Gallons of grease poured out to the ocean, mixing in layered whorls in the vaporizing tide pools. Oil and water. Saltwater and sugar grease. The loud pops and cracks of incineration drowned the muffled groans and gasps of the guests as their bodies began to implode.

What was left of Phillip Henry’s consciousness wondered about the nature of a star. 

In the final moment, the bulbous sun stretched out infinite arcs of gold and red that consumed the ocean. 

The human contortionist chairs.

The guests.

The beach.

The Earth itself. 

A flare of blinding light ricocheted through space. The sound disappeared in a vacuum only to reverberate silently across the chasm beyond the limits of the star. The Milky Way reoriented itself as Mars, Mercury, Venus, and Earth disappeared, the solar system shrinking in one cosmic moment. The smell of burning human flesh was replaced with the metallic raspberry smell of the universe. Life disintegrated into rebirth. 

Time, newly devoured, began again within the belly of the sun.