Cool Moon

“Driving’s not my thing,” I said looking at the orange-yellow moon. The car smelt of burning fields. “Wind your window up,” I said. 

How you love open windows, feeling the wind buffet your hair. Trails of morning traffic sat poised along the main road. As we neared the launch site, you said “That can’t be right, the moon that low.” 

I thought of stopping the car, taking a ladder to chip off a fat chunk of cool moon. You’d pass me a chisel and I’d break off a specimen. We’d suspend it above the dining room table. Visitors would say that’s neat, admiring the way you’d aim an angle-poise lamp to accentuate its lunar glow.

As we drove closer to oblivion, I promised I’d face my fears: do crazy things like booking flights to Astana or emailing my dad. If I didn’t embrace the fear, then we’d burn like flares.

When you turned the car around, slicing into the woods, pathways beckoned enticingly, but you wouldn’t stop. You swung around a bend and the tarmac widened. Again, you accelerated. The engine screamed and the gravel began to bite. Sparks leapt from the earth and g-force crammed my head against the headrest. My stomach began to float as you pushed our Fiat forward into the hot blazing space between the stars.