We Are All Made of Stars

Part I - The Shroud

"I don't believe in the supernatural."

That's something Tony said to me ten minutes into our first date. Normally such a statement wouldn't vex me much. I respect healthy skepticism and Tony was a grad student studying theoretical physics. It would be odd to expect such a man to be a believer.

What pissed me off to no end, though, was that he said it in response to my suspicion that something "supernatural" was lurking around my apartment. You know, a poltergeist or what have you.

To brush off my experiences so blithely seemed smug.

He must have been able to read my displeasure at his reply. His hand made its way to mine from across the dinner table (also presumptuous).

"No, no let me explain," he said gently. His earnest look along with the warmth of his hand on mine soothed the indignation that had been ready to explode.

"What I mean is: I don't believe in the term supernatural. In literature, sure. But in the real world? In life as we know it? It's not a very useful word. At least, not in my opinion."

I raised my eyebrows.

"Really not helping your case there, Spock."

He smiled at that. His smiles were crooked and perfect. Tony didn't just smile with his mouth; he smiled with his eyes.

"I'm not saying things like ghosts, demons and spirits don't exist. Trust me, I believe every word you told me about the weirdness in your apartment. What I'm saying, albeit a little clumsily..."

That was something I always loved about him. He used words like "albeit" in casual conversation. None of the Sensoryfeed addicts and couchsurfers I hung around with said things like that.

"...is that if ghosts and spirits exist, they're not supernatural. If they are real, then they're part of the natural world. We just don't understand how they fit in yet."

After a generous sip of wine for me and another smile from him, Tony was forgiven.

I'd been out of the closet for two years when I met Tony. In the intervening time I'd been the worst kind of cliche. Clubbing, sleeping with anyone who'd have me and casually dating manipulative assholes.

My sister, Abby, finally sat me down one day. My head was reeling from another neon night jumping around a dancefloor and popping pills. She told me I looked like hell, smelled like a combination of body-glitter and B.O. and insisted I grow up. Abby had a friend, you see. A nice guy, a smart guy. The kind of guy who took life seriously.

So it came to pass that I fell madly in love with this nebbish scholar after just a few weeks of dating.

We had some good years. Great years, actually. Once he'd finished his masters and I my bachelors, we got a place together and nested. Well, I nested. He mostly read and occasionally painted a wall.

I got a job as a researcher for a public Audiofeed station while Tony managed to score a great teaching gig at one of the best universities in the country. Two classes a day, then all the time he wanted to poke mental holes in the fabric of the universe on the school's dime.

Each night I'd arrive home and whistle to announce myself. Tony would whistle back. Invariably I'd find him reading away and scribbling notes, a glass of wine always resting precariously close to some precious tome that promised the secrets of the universe.

I'd chide him about how impractical it was to flip through all those dusty old almanacs and paper studies.  With his scroller he could carry every word ever written in his pocket. He'd tsk me and give me a grin, as if he and the yellowing pages of his books shared some precious secret.