the stars are bright

one

In Astronomy, a star is formed from a cloud of interstellar gas and dust left behind by previous stars. It swirls, gradually forming, atoms binding to become this luminescent object we see in the night sky. Everyone marvels at the brilliance of these stars, reflecting the stars of the past, beautiful shiny things in the sky that are always, always there. They are the subject of countless metaphors, conveyors of romance, and signs of fate. The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings. Those aren't just freckles. If you look closely, you can see Cassiopeia. Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.

What no one ever talks about is what happens when a star dies. When they've exhausted all of their energy to light up the night sky only to swell and deflate and to be forgotten forever. Do they matter? Should they matter? For we know that when one star dies there's always, always another one to take its place.

* * * * *

Do things really happen for a reason? I sometimes wonder if something as trivial as missing the train in the morning is a sign from some higher force that I should or should not be doing something more with my life. We can't possibly be unlucky enough to simply be human that life just happens with no rhyme or reason just because it's--well--life?

I'm almost certain there was a reason why he was waiting for me outside of the theater that night, but by some weird twist of fate neither of us knew what that was until we really needed each other and neither of us was there. It was just one of those moments you know? Dismissed with just a simple cock of his head and a shrug. They just happen and in the moment you brush them off. But it's always those moments that come back to you and you just wonder.

The old Royal on Second Avenue liked to play old movies. If you were looking for blockbuster new releases or midnight showings on opening nights with the queue wrapping around the corner, the Royal was not the place for you. It was this sagging old place that catered primarily to sagging old people. The faded red carpeting was matted, the mold-eaten yellow striped wallpaper peeled, and the hard worn velvet seats slumped so low you were almost swallowed by them. And while the place hadn't undergone a good facelift since the turn of the century, it held a certain charm.

I only went on Sundays. Sundays was Eighties night. Each day had it's own decade of films that they played: Monday was Twenties, Tuesday Thirties, Wednesdays Forties, and so on. But I liked Eighties night.

I couldn't tell you why. There was just something about the movies from the Eighties that captivated me. Maybe it was the dawn of new ideas in science and technology, you know, Star Wars, Back to the Future, freaking ET. Or the thrill of action and adventure like in Indiana Jones or Die Hard. Or maybe it was the eeriness of Poltergeist, Gremlins, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, Red Rum. Or maybe it was none of that. Maybe it was just the lightheartedness of Ferris' day off or having detention on a Saturday.

Whatever it was, it made me feel at home.

I'd seen him there before. Every Sunday night, third row from the back, aisle seat. His mop of curly dark brown hair always in a state of disarray as if he'd just gotten out of bed and decided he wanted to go see a random Eighties film. The lopsided expression on his face, always reminiscent of a young John Cusack smirking knowingly, his brown eyes reflecting the images dashing across the screen but somehow always in a daze. That night he was wearing jeans and a long brown trench coat with the collar popped up around his neck, and as I exited the theater, I eyed him rather suspiciously. He watched me as I pushed through the doors and out into the frigid cold night. I tried to ignore him, but I couldn't help but feel his gaze on my back.