If you knew her, then you knew how the heavens, no matter how beautiful, was just another blurry face in a sea of people. You'd understand.
I used to think there was nothing more exhilarating than looking at the stars on a dry, open field in the middle of July. But the feeling of lying down and gazing at the infinite blanket of dotted night sky was put to shame when I met her. I've always loved constellations, and the first time I met her, I was fascinated at the fact that she had the Orion's belt for freckles: dot, dot, dot, from the bridge of her nose to her right cheek. Her hair was midnight, the inky blue-black that glistened in the light. Her cheeks were always flushed with a red only cold winds could have dared to kiss. And her eyes? Balls of fire. I love it when she laughs so much; her eyes start to tear up, as if they were twinkling. The stars didn't seem lightyears away.
I've always thanked God--Gods if there were many of them--or whatever creature or greater being there was for making such a breathtaking view as the heavenly bodies and the galaxies, those things that burn and live even when suspended in nothingness. I used to think nothing in this world could ever compare.
But Annaliese?
God, she made the universe so . . . mundane.