Two Cans and a String

I’m about to reach over to my bedside table to click off my lamp when I notice the moving shadow being casted onto my curtains. And then there’s the clanging of metal and the snap of plastic and an oomph!

Curious, I slide from beneath the crocheted blanket my Grandma made for me. The plush carpets muffles the sound of my footfalls as I step closer to the window. The cool breeze whirls around my bare legs from where it drifts towards me from behind the sheets of linen covering the window. I shiver but continue moving until I’m close enough to reach the glass.

Will twists to see me just as I push the curtain in order to peek outside. He frowns slightly but then recovers and flashes his goofy grin. “Hey.”

Just one syllable uttered in his deep, lulling tone jolts my heart into a frenzy. It calms me an ruffles me at the same time and all of my thoughts from earlier bounce into my mind. I try my best to push them away. “What are you doing?” The words are distorted by an inelegant yawn that reveals itself halfway through the question.

The boy grins again but this time it seems almost bashful, with his hands fisted into the pockets of his sweatpants and a shrug that lifts his broad shoulders. All I can think about is how until now I’ve never cared about my yawns being inelegant in front of him and he’s never seem bashful in front of me until I hear his voice again. “It’s your birthday,” He says, glancing down at the grey shingles of the roof.

My gaze follows his. A ratty plaid fleece blanket is spread haphazardly across the surface. Resting on top is a tripod with various sized white cylindrical pieces spread near its feet. I can tell right away that he’s in the process of assembling the cheap telescope I’d given him for his own thirteenth birthday. The action is so endearing that all I can do is stand there like an idiot. I know the only knowledge Will has gained about the night sky is from what I’ve told him, and even when put in the simplest terms he didn’t really understand it.

When I don’t say anything, Will nervously rubs his hand over the back of his neck so roughly I can hear the brushing together of his skin. He begins to breathlessly explain, like maybe he believes I’m off put by the thoughtfulness of the gesture. “I saw on the news that there’s a blood moon tonight,” he uses the term tentatively, “and I know you always look at the stars and my budget is sort of tight so I just thought we could-”

“Thank you,” I say softly, cutting off his rambling.

We stand mute for several moments, engulfed by the chirping of crickets and the whoosh of cars rushing past on the streets. The tension between us somehow keeps us frozen in place and pulls us together. I wonder if he senses it too or if I’m just delusional or a newly born romantic.

These moments of stillness are what I yearn for in the daylight. It’s what I was searching for on that park bench. Because in these I can escape the increasing uncertainty of my future, especially now with the studio closing. Will is that one thing that is certain. Even when I’m gazing at the sky his grounding presence is what I focus on.

Finally, after I notice three new stars embed themselves into the blanket of darkness above us, I say, “You have no idea how to build that. Can I help?”

“Certainly,” He answers and I smile.

Will accidentally drops the instructions off the edge of the roof and the flimsy paper dances in the air until its ruined by the damp grass. It takes all of twenty minutes to construct the thing without them. While we do so, Will informs me of the schedule, proudly announcing that the eclipse begins at midnight and peaks at one. And then I ask him about his day and he tells me about that, too.

We scramble backward onto the blanket when we’re done, me sitting cross-legged and Will with his long legs stretched out in front of him. I want to tell him about the news my mother gave me but I don’t for fear that it may ruin the hearty mood. Instead I let my mind wander to that last time we were out here sitting in the same positions. If I snake my fingers between his would he pull away now that our emotions are passive and our consciences are clear? I want to test it.

Taking a risk, I gently placing my hand over his. Our forearms brush. Without a word, he flips his own hand and weaves our fingers together. The contact ignites my skin. It’s like the world has stopped. No sound fills my ears, no scents waft up my nostrils. My heart pounds erratically inside my chest. I stare down at his cracked knuckles. I want to brush my lips against them, I think, and the thought surprises me.

“What is happening?” He murmurs against my shoulder and its comforting because I know I’m not alone in this pool of overwhelming, foreign feelings. It’s not only me asking the questions now; it’s both of us.

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly, untucking my legs and rolling over to reach my arm across his waist. His heart thrums against my ear and his abdomen is taut against my forearm. Every once in awhile I’ll feel the light drag of his finger up and down my spine.

Together we watch as the moon - a distant, constant figure of earth - transforms into a deep red beautiful oddity.