The Moon and Me

“You’re clearly an idiot,” he said, eyebrow raised in a perfect arch over his too-bright silver eye. “Obviously, I’m the moon.”

“I thought the moon was a woman,” I said, with what I’ll admit was a pout. I’m not going to deny it.

He, the apparent moon, gleamed in anger. “Look, just because popular fiction—”

“And myth.”

“—and myth depict me as the fairer sex doesn’t mean they’re true.” He shifted haughtily. “You should believe what you see.”

“I never said I didn’t believe you.” He was standing right in front of me, looking very moon-like, after all. “I just expected someone more…” I punctuated the sentence with a gesture usually reserved for miming a pregnant woman.

He glanced down at his slender frame. “I only ever go out when I’m waning crescent.”

“Ah.” I leaned forward as he sat down in the lawn chair opposite me. Even in the dark, he glowed. “So, why are you here?”

For the first time all night, he looked bashful. “You looked so lonely,” he said, “and the stars are such bad conversationalists.”

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