The sky is a smoky mix of burnt sienna blurring into gunmetal grey, the kind of fabric I would make into a dress if it were silk. Walking around, I search determinedly for the source of such warmth at this late hour, but it’s a struggle to weave through the sky-high pre-fab casings to find the light (even an eclipsed one).
The air feels different, like the word is holding its breath while this happens, distracted by something special. After looking at it directly, I feel like I can see it better if I close my eyes, bridging the distance by looking inside. And I do, and it does – come closer that is, hugging me from the inside out, grateful that I made the time.
Eyes still closed I tilt my head back to breathe it in and a cold droplet – barely a drop, really – kisses my lips so softly that it’s easy to pretend it isn’t there. A second falls a second later, this one a cumbersome dollop that makes itself known. I wonder if they are eclipse-born tears, tears of happiness at coming together, tears at the wonder of the moment, at the fear or pain of having to once again come apart…
“Did it hurt?” he asks, slowing down after passing me briskly, like he’d just remembered the question he had meant to ask me yesterday, had we known each other then.
“Did what hurt?”
“The fall,” he answers almost earnestly, the gleam in his eye betraying his intentions. “I wonder if it hurt when you fell from heaven, my angel.” Winking he smiles and regains his momentum, our coming apart as quick as our coming together.
Looking up, I smile and remember that it had… but not for the reasons he would think.
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