January 10, 2009

• “You ever feel afraid?”

  I didn’t really bother to look at his face. I continued looking at the stars, trying to find constellations.

  I heard him laugh, softly, like he always did. There was a mellowness to it, a deep cushion you could sleep in, if you wanted.

  “Isn’t everyone afraid?” he asked. I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, the cool white of his chains peeping out of his black pants against the dark of the night, every so often. I couldn’t help but smile, even if only because of familiarity.

  I let my head lay back and exhaled steam heavily into the night air; there wasn’t snow, but it felt like there should have been. “Not like I mean,” I told him, letting my head just pivot a little. It rolled to its right and gazed at Justin, a look of amusement delighting in the nerve endings and muscles at its disposal.

  I looked back at the sky; I jumped back onto the hood of the car I had been leaning against; I sat there, just gazing. “They’re not there.”

  I’m sure Justin was looking at me with slight apprehension. I was willing to bet money on it. “What isn’t?” he asked.

  “There aren’t constellations,” I whispered to him. I blew out short puffs of steam, watching it curl so delicately before me. I blew a little and watched it scatter. “Why’d we come out here? Our parents told us not to.”

  The sun was coming up: I felt like I was watching the one light chase away the others, replacing the multitudes and the darkness with One. And it was empty.

  I bowed my head and crushed it between my knees, blocking out the sound, squeezing out the light, squelching (if I only could) my very feeling away.

  I released my head, staring at the grass and the way the little light filtered through. I looked up to see a slight redness at the horizon, barely visible. I breathed out my nose, deeply.

  And stars; so many stars.

  • 1:07 am
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