To My Shooting Star

two

The first day we met is a movie that I could re watch a million times and never get bored of it, like you with The Matrix. It begins at a party, everyone was intoxicated except for us. Your sea green and sea blue eyes meet my gaze.

"I'm Mo," you smiled in the spinning hallway that hung various family photos that were collapsed on the floor by the end of night, similar to the way the guests were collapsed as well.

"Bryn," I shyly smiled back behind my over-sized glasses and black dress that was far too elegant for this kind of gathering. And from that moment I knew I would get to know you better.

Later in the night you found yourself a seat next to me on the pink couch that was becoming a faint shade of brown, where we spoke of local New York bands and shared our favorite songs and books. You crossed your ankle on top of your knee, making you look as though you were deeply interested in my talk of my favorite art gallery. Your green corduroy pants cut off high, exposing your ankles.

Deep into the chaotic night that was just the beginning of the endless spontaneity that became the rest of my life, you grabbed my wrist and led me out the front door and down the cement steps of the apartment complex and ran through the still swarming streets of central Manhattan in the middle of the night. When we stopped running you lied down on the grass in Central Park, and I lied beside you, panting for breath still, and glassy-eyed as to what was happening, but I went along with it.

After a few minutes of motionlessly listening to lingering city sounds you pointed to a patch of stars in the sky and confidently told me, "Belt of Orion,"

I just laughed.

"What?" you looked at me with a smile and an eyebrow raised, which, little did I know, would become your signature expression.

"I have no idea what you are pointing at," I admitted.

Fifteen minutes into trying to explain to me where the constellation was located, we simultaneously gasped.

"Did we just see a shooting star?" I asked, with frenzy dancing in my eyes.

You nodded, almost matching my excitement. We stayed there for the rest of the night, gasping with the same excitement, no matter how many shooting stars we saw.

"I want to see you tomorrow night," you blatantly let out while walking me to my car.

I wanted the same, incontestably. "I have a band thing tomorrow," I replied.

"Bryn!" I loved hearing my name in your voice regardless of the tone. "How could you not tell me you're in a band?"

I laughed, "We're called Primordial Soup in a Can."

You raised your eyebrows and attempted to stifle a chuckle but failed, "Like the scientific theory of how the universe began?"

"Yes, exactly that! But only in a can," I grinned, "Anyway, I play bass and we have a little show tomorrow night."

"Sold, I'm going!"

"No, it's stupid-"

You cupped my face in your hands and made deep eye contact, "I'm going."

The following night and the rest of the seven months I spent with you were filled with the same adventure as that night. You were my shooting star.