“Here, give it a try,” she says, pressing it into your hands. A small, insistent gesture. It’s warm to the touch; a strange, luminous thing. “You can eat this, if you like.” In her singsong voice, she says this nonchalantly. As though it’s not a big deal to reach out, grab a star and place it carefully into someone’s sands. She smiles up at you, encouraging you to dig in.
She walks ahead. You hold this star in your hands, watching it glisten back at you. So close. Yesterday, it would have been too far out of reach. How marvellous! What does it taste like, do you wonder? You heard a rumour that it melts in your mouth like your favourite pistachio ice cream. But you fear it may bubble, ominously, like sicky sherbert as it uncomfortably coats your tongue.
She holds your hand. Not because she has to, but because you both know you’ve been brave and come so far and are in love. And because you’ve always liked the way your fingers feel when they blend together for the first time, every time. Like home. But only not. Because you’ve come so far on purpose.
You gently place your star in your pocket and ask if she’s hungry. “What’s good here?” she asks. You head to a small restaurant where the waiters speak in a language neither of you understand, and they serve parts of the galaxy whole.
Dust.
Matter.
Silken darkness.
All served in enormous bowls.
It should have been awful, but you both really like it, and it makes you more comfortable about taking a bite from your pocket. Eager now to experience the stars. You don’t though. Instead, you realise nothing feels bad when you are with her. And as you watch her eyes light up as she slurps another hearty spoonful, you realise: you couldn’t turn back now even if you wanted to.
Later, legs stretched out, as though infinitely in front of you, she looks at you and sighs, “This is rather lovely, isn’t it?” You hadn’t thought about it. Lying back, you stare up at the moon smiling back at you, closer than ever, and you wonder: if, upon waking tomorrow, would you think today was a mistake? Would you look back down at earth and ache for gravity, structured roads and normal dinners?
Then, you roll over and watch her sleep; mouth slightly open, soft snores invading the space between you. She breathes in the day’s residue; a shimmering, glistening thread, and everything is hushed. You smile. Even with the galaxy’s shadow dancing across her face, she’s breathtaking.