For all we know, Navi blew up five hundred years ago.” “Wow,” I said.
“So, you’re looking at the past.” “Yeah, exactly.” I felt him fumbling for something—his phone, maybe—
and then glanced down and realized he was trying to hold my hand. I took it.
We were quiet beneath the old light above us. I was thinking about how the sky—at least this sky—wasn’t actually black.
The real darkness was in the trees, which could be seen only in silhouette.
The trees were shadows of themselves against the rich silver-blue of the night sky.
I heard him turn his head toward me and could feel him looking at me.
I wondered why I wanted him to kiss me, and how to know why you want to be with someone, how to disentangle the messy knots of wanting.
And I wondered why I was scared to turn my head toward him. Davis started talking about the stars again—
as the night got darker, I could see more and more of them, faint and wobbly, just teetering on the edge of visibility—
and he was telling me about light pollution and how I could see the stars moving if I waited long enough,
and how some Greek philosopher thought the stars were pinpricks in a cosmic shroud.
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