Falling

First published in Loud Coffee Press, July 2020

You remember the meteor shower.

He insisted he couldn’t come, but you guilted him into it anyway. He was the one leaving you, after all.

You went to your favorite spot, that clearing off the old bike trail. Where he’d first kissed you against that rust bucket of a car. You took the lead, pulling him onto the hood after you. It was still warm from a day in the summer sun and you settled into the dent like it had been molded to your bodies.

Trails of light streaked across the open sky and you couldn’t help brushing your fingers against his. That ripple of electricity you felt? The one that made you smile? He felt it, too. He just didn’t know what it meant. Not like you did. He was too busy worrying about how far the drive was from Ohio to California.

I’ll meet you there, you whispered. He didn’t hear you over the swelling cicadas. It was a fleeting thought, drawn out by the searing tail of falling space dust.

Last you heard, he had gotten into med school.

Now, you lay in that same dent and spark a cigarette. The sky is darkening. The hood is uncomfortable and the wind makes you shiver. There are no meteors tonight.

California is as far away as it ever was.