by Rebecca Gaffron
I said shooting star, but you said firefly because the stars were invisible — engrossed in a game of hide and seek behind mounds of inky clouds. You laughed and attributed my vision to tequila, while pouring me another.
On the walk home, I saw something glowing golden in the grass. I said shooting star and you smiled and followed me inside, to the comfort of strong lights and company. But the darkness pulled us back. There, a brilliant spark pulsed, a miniscule sun in a distant galaxy. I pointed, named it shooting star. "No," you said, "fireflies. Two. Entwined."
And suddenly we were. You, like some mischarged magnet, both attracted and repulsed, kissed with tender fury, then held me at arm’s length. You asked what I really wanted. And I, aware of your fingers on my back, willed the fabric of my shirt to dissolve. I safely answered,"I don’t know." But what I meant was, we should be utterly entwined and luminous. And we should set the sky alight.