Lacerta

Night falls the same way it always does, and my time is passed the same way it always is. The sun disappears in his orange-red painted farewell, and the moon takes the place her lover left. I always imagined they were in love, anyway. A forbidden, never-to-be, romantic in a sad way kind of love. I lean against the windowsill to watch the display and wonder if the moon is as in awe as I am of her sun's ability to paint the sky like that.

Once the black-blue covers the horizon and the stars start to poke through, but before I can find the constellations, I stand for a moment. Just long enough to stretch any more stress from my body so I can truly enjoy the show the sky is about to put on. If the moon and sun are in love, maybe the stars are their children. But something about the glory of a star renders a strange feeling when you call it a child. It seems they deserve more respect than that.

The dark is soon lit by them, cluster by cluster, constellation by random pattern. The shine and the glow the burning points create is something that always seems new to me, no matter how many times I see it. I never get bored of it, and it never fails to comfort me.

I pull open the top left drawer of the desk sitting just beside the windowsill and pull out the notebook and star map. A light pink pencil that seems as if a toy ballerina belongs on the top of it is laying oh-so-straight above the drawer, and I tuck it behind my ear.

The night always goes like this, before I have to begin a day. I'll spend as much time as possible watching, tracking, and observing. I love seeing the sky, the subtle differences night to night as the earth moves around these fixed points of light. The day is interesting as well, with the clouds and sun patterns, but something is just...different. About the night. Mystery, dark, whatever it may be. I don't need to know. Just enjoy.

The moon is full, the summer night is humid and warm, and I have a beautiful view of Lacerta, my favorite constellation. My calculations were incorrect, I predicted I'd be seeing it clearly the day after tomorrow. Tonight is the brightest I've ever seen.

"What about the night fascinates you?"

I startle when the voice unexpected and out of place sounds from somewhere outside. I go as still as possible, my mind running over a billion possibilities and minor panic starting to rise. But, I doubt a robber would be asking me about my interests.

"I apologize if it's a forward question," the voice chimes again. There's a pause before it rings out, "or a sensitive topic."

"Are you alright?" I ask, not moving from my place at the windowsill. I don't want to disturb whoever - or whatever - is discussing my nighttime habits with me, "you do realize you're talking to someone on the 17th floor?"

"I do indeed."

"So how?" I resist the urge to stand up and take a look, "some sort of climbing gear?"

"What would I need that for?"

I decide to give up on the idea of self-control, and I stand slowly to gaze a little below the windowsill.

"What's your name?" I ask while edging closer and closer to where I'll be able to see who owns it.

"Amaryllis."

"It's pretty."

"Well, it's the name you'll understand."

That gives me even more pause. It sounds a little on the edge of crazy, one more sentence away from tipping off the edge and meeting a harsh death.

"What's one that I will not?"

The voice speaks a few syllables like nothing I've heard before. It reminds me of bells ringing, I hear rain or a waterfall, it feels like peace, and it sounds like silence full of memories.