Perfect days and perfect nights and perfect memories. Like candy melting on your tongue: sweet while it lasts, the taste lingering in your mind longer than the candy ever did. The craving is there but I know the best I can do is momentarily sate it with an incomplete
When you show it to her, you're a bit nervous. You fidget, shifting from foot to foot, and wipe your palms on your jeans. But this was your idea and that is your mode of transportation. The issue, though, is how people tend to treat you after they see it. Like you've become some sort of badass.
You're not.
So when you show her Baby Blue, your '86 Honda Rebel, you can't look at Clair. Instead, you study your bike. A couple dings in the side, sure, but besides that she's in good shape. (And those dings are your fault. The first time you tried to ride, under Tyler's tutelage, you popped the clutch and dropped it on yourself. You never did that again.)
When you finally pull your gaze towards Clair, she's grinning with unrestrained delight. Her eyes are all lit up, gleaming as bright as they did the night you first met. And those freckles...!
"God, M., she's beautiful." Clair runs her fingertips down the body of your motorcycle and tests the brake experimentally. Her smile overtakes her face and her eyes crinkle up.
A fierce pleasure warms your chest and settles under your heart. Your bike isn't the only one who's beautiful.
"Her name's Baby Blue," you say by way of explanation.
"Baby Blue." Clair tastes the name on her tongue. It sounds even better coming from her lips.
"Here," you say, opening the flap on one of the saddlebags. You gesture towards what Clair is holding, namely a paper bag containing four sandwiches and two Diet Cokes. A midnight picnic.
(Well, it's really a 10 PM picnic, but that doesn't have the same ring. So you pretend it's midnight.)
You only have one helmet, so you hand it to her. When she puts it on, you can see your reflection in the shield. Clear and bright, your eyes mirror hers. They shine, just as you know hers must beneath the helmet. And your cheeks flush, from the crispness of the night, from the pleasure of a clear sky and Clair's company. You have this thought that if she pulled off the helmet, her face would still reflect yours: identical grins and eyes flashing like city lights and pure adrenaline.
Instead, you give her a thumbs-up and climb onto Baby Blue. You start her up (she isn't a beast or anything, so she can't roar to life. It's about as small of a bike as you can get. But you fell in love with her and couldn't bear the thought of buying a bigger, flashier bike.)
So, with the engine revved up, Clair clambers behind you and onto the seat. She wraps her arms around you, and your heart-rate kicks up a notch, though not just because of Clair. No, because of the night and your bike and the city lights.
In that moment, you are free.
So you light down the freeway. Clair clings to you and her laughter resounds in your ears. The pair of you slice through the night on a motorcycle aimed at the stars. Glowing streetlamps and exits and cityscape give way to the sprawl of countryside.
The air is clearer here, light pollution fading and skyscrapers no longer looming overhead. You breathe freer here and Clair's heartbeats match yours (loud as drums, beating the quick staccato of alive and alive and alive.) You cruise down that highway, away from everything.
The night tastes of freedom and forevers.
The breeze teases your hair, tugging it from your ponytail. Your eyes stream from the whipping wind and the cool night. If you could see yourselves, you imagine you'd look a beautiful mess: hair tangled with wind, glimmering eyes and tear-streaked face. And giddiness jumping from under your skin like electricity or lightening.
(Really, the night can't be half so beautiful as you and Clair racing down moonlit streets. Life is beauty.)
Blinking back the stream of tears, you slow to a halt. As soon as you've pulled off the road, Clair hops off and peels away the helmet, shaking out her yellow hair. It's silvery in the starlight and you stare transfixed before she throws her arms around you. (The helmet thumps your back hard, rattling your ribs. There'll be a bruise the next morning.)
"That was amazing!" Clair peels away from you, eyes shining and cheeks flushed.
You grin. "Yeah. This night is perfect."
She throws her head back, basking in starglow. You follow her gaze up to the sky— you were right. Perfection.
"So, where to now?"
Your brows furrow. "What?"
"Where are we going?"
"I hadn't planned anything. I just wanted to go for a ride." (The night and Clair and silvery stars. There was nothing that needed planning.)
Clair considers, biting a nail. You can spot the moment inspiration strikes: eyes blaze, dancing freckles, pixie smile. Pulling out her phone, she says, "I've got an idea. I'll give you directions, okay?"
The road sprawls before you, paved in those forevers.
"Okay."
Again, the bike. The wind and stars and drumming heartbeats.
"There." Clair points to a stand of trees, and a sign leading to a gravel road. You slow, skimming over the path and cutting the engine in front of a small lodge.
"A state park?"
"Cheap camping, my friend. I got pissed at my mom one summer and stayed at one for a week before I finally went home." She hops off the bike, landing with a crunch of gravel. "I'll go get us a campsite. It'll only take a minute."
It takes more than a minute, but Clair returns with a map and a sticker to put on Baby Blue. "Onward!"
The campsite is down a loop and small fires from other campers dot the way.
"There." Clair points and you stutter to a halt. Beneath the swaying shadows, another wooden sign directs the way to your site. The crunch of gravel, Clair's heartbeat, deep breaths of midnight air.
It's perfect.
(It still isn't midnight, but so long as you don't check the time, who can say any different?)
The night spreads out before you. And it's not just the stars. The trees whisper to one another (like you and Clair) and the crickets laugh in the darkness (also like you and Clair.)
It gets you thinking.
Have you ever had a night like this? Will you ever again?
(Nights dripping in stars and mystery. Nights started by taking off on motorcycles like rockets. Nights in the fall, in the cozy darkness, nights with Clair.)
It's a string of thoughts and questions.
Because the night is laid out before you like a feast, and you savor everything it brings. (And, as always, questions. It's not that you go out of your way to think of them, they just show up, solidifying in your mind one after another.)
(Like the weather. Have you ever actually thought about it? Not the way you talk about it with your dentist or the person cutting your hair, but really thought about it?)
That night you do. The day's heat has dissipated (though it's much warmer now that you're not flying down the highway), and as the sky deepens, there is a slight shift. It's not something you can pinpoint, just the sense that something is fundamentally different. Ever so slightly different. You notice it more as the night wears on; the sky thickens with stars. The breeze nips a little harder.
(Day has eased into night. Ever so slowly, too. Gradually. You can't say the moment it was no longer day, or the moment it flipped to darkness. But it is dark, so it did.)
These are your thoughts. (Not, mind you, when you were escaping the city and flying down the freeway. No, they come later, as you take stock of your supplies and explore your campsite.)
You've scrounged up a few provisions between the two of you, but all in all, it's a paltry list.
(For reference: a lighter you'd taken from Tyler at some point, $27 and assorted change, a Diet Coke and two sandwiches apiece, one motorcycle, and the clothes on your back.
Even so, it's enough. There's enough dry wood in the forest, and after a few false starts, you finally get the fire blazing, smoke and sparks jumping into the night. Between the fire crackling merrily and the wind whistling through the trees, the night sings a lullaby.
You've never felt more awake.
There's a profound quiet in those woods. Not that there is no noise, just that it's the kind of quiet that slips into your soul. Clair and you, sitting on a semi-rotting log, gazing into the flames. Quiet you've never known.
She tilts her head back, moonbeam and firelight reflecting in her eyes, bouncing off her hair.
"We are all made of star stuff."
You arch an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
She doesn't smile, just continues contemplating the heavens. "It's literal," Clair says, "Not like one of those motivational posters with cats on them, but actually. We're actually made of the same, the same--" she gestures to the sky, animated.
"Isn't that amazing? That's why I'm studying astronomy. I want to find truth, M. Us and the universe and everything."
The wind sings through the night, and you watch Clair. She is certainly made of stars (outlined in the glow of them, silhouette gilded, it would be impossible to think otherwise.) She leans back even farther and startles you by laughing.
"Does that sound stupid? Or, I don't know..." She rakes a hand through her hair, trailing off.
"No." (But you must say more. Why? The question begs answering.) "Isn't that all of science? Trying to figure out how the world works?"
Her eyes meet yours, intense and alert, and you ramble on, "Maybe most people wouldn't call it truth, but that doesn't mean it isn't."
Flames lick the edge of the fire pit, throwing long shadows across Clair's face. The crackle of burning logs and chirping crickets and quiet consideration fill the air. Again, she smiles.
"I like you, M. Sometimes I'm afraid my hopes or desires or whatever sound stupid or pretentious or something." She leans against you, crouched, elbows on knees. She stares at the fire, and it stares back.
"You just said 'whatever' and 'or something' in the same sentence. I think you'll be okay."
"Thanks." She laughs and kisses your cheek.
Though the night has cooled considerably (you can taste frost on the wind), a pool of warmth licks your ribs. You press closer to her and your head starts to droop. A stray hair tickles your nose, but you don't mind. Leaning over to you, Clair pulls your hood up and tugs the drawstrings as far as they'll go, then does the same to herself. Only her eyes and nose are visible, but the way they crinkle tells you she must be smiling.
"It's so damn cold."
And it is. Your fingers and toes are numb, and if your hood wasn't up, your ears would be too.
"We should've brought a tent or a blanket. Or something."
"What fun would that be? Impromptu camping trips that are fully supplied? Preposterous!"
You grin, and Clair's freckles leap over her cheeks.
There might be something here. Something in her hidden smile, in the darkness and moonlight and smoke. In the flickering fire and the stories the stars bring. In your whispering voices and the whispering breeze. There might be something here.
These are your thoughts before you drift off. Before the flickering flames play off the back of your eyelids. Before your breathing evens, and her head droops against yours.
There might be something here.
(The laughing crickets and rustling wind. Leaves singing on the breeze.
Spilling moonlight. Flickering firelight. Star-dappled darkness.)
Even breathing.
Something here.