Starlight

     “Starry night last night,” he said. “The whole sky filled.”

“Isn’t that true every night?” she said. “I mean right now, the sky, the universe, is filled with stars. More than you can see, than anybody can see.”

“I saw them last night,” he said.

“Every one?”

“Yes, every one. Every one I could see, I saw.” He paused, drank the last of his coffee. “Which is what we are seeing now, every star we can see."
"Which is none.”

“I know--it doesn't mean they're not there. All I meant to say was that what you could see last night—the black night full of stars—was beautiful. A visible starry sky.”

‘I see,” she said.

“I wish you had seen it,” he said.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You were sleeping.”

“Well, obviously. But you could have waked me.”

‘You hate to be disturbed. You don’t wake easily.”

“That’s true.”

What he did do after standing at the window, eyes open, heart beating, imprinting the wonder of the universe, was to go back to their room and watch her sleep. The starlight from the window illumined her just enough, caught the curve of her chin, outlined her arm across the blanket, the wad of sheet clutched in her fist as if she were just holding on. He’d watched her in the faint star light, listened to her breathe, kissed her lightly, very lightly—she hated to be disturbed—and then he too slept.

© 2014 Kathleen Coskran