The Sun Is Also a Star(14)

It seems like such a long time ago when I thought the world of him. He was some exotic planet and I was his favorite satellite. But he’s no planet, just the final fading light of an already dead star.

And I’m not a satellite. I’m space junk, hurtling as far as I can away from him.





I DON’T THINK I’VE EVER noticed anyone the way I’m noticing her. Sunlight filters through her hair, making it look like a kind of halo around her head. A thousand emotions pass over her face. Her eyes are black and wide, with long lashes. I can imagine staring into them for a long time. Right now they’re dull, but I know exactly what they would look like bright and laughing. I wonder if I can make her laugh. Her skin is a warm and glowing brown. Her lips are pink and full, and I’m probably staring at them for far too long. Fortunately, she’s too sad to notice what a shallow (and horny) jerk I am.

She looks up from her broken headphones. As our eyes meet, I get a kind of déjà vu, but instead of feeling like I’m repeating something in the past, it feels like I’m experiencing something that will happen in my future. I see us in old age. I can’t see our faces; I don’t know where or even when we are. But I have a strange and happy feeling that I can’t quite describe. It’s like knowing all the words to a song but still finding them beautiful and surprising.





I STAND UP AND DUST myself off. This day can’t get any worse. It must eventually end. “Were you following me?” I ask him. I’m crankier and testier than I should be with someone who just saved my life.

“Man, I knew you would think that.”

“You just happened to be right behind me?” I fiddle with my headphones, trying to reattach the ear pad, but it’s hopeless.

“Maybe I was meant to save your life today,” he says.

I ignore that. “Okay, thanks for your help,” I say, preparing to leave.

“At least tell me your name,” he blurts out.

“Red Tie—”

“Daniel.”

“Okay, Daniel. Thank you for saving me.”

“That’s a long name.” His eyes don’t leave mine. He’s not going to give up until I tell him.

“Natasha.”

I think he’s going to shake my hand again, but instead he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nice name.”



“So glad you approve,” I say, giving him my most sarcastic tone.

He doesn’t say anything else, just looks at me with a slight frown, as if he’s trying to figure something out.

Finally I can’t take it anymore. “Why are you staring at me?”

He blushes again, and now I’m staring. I can see how it might be fun to tease him just to get him to blush. I let my eyes wander the sharp planes of his face. He is classically handsome; debonair, even. Watching him stand there in his suit, I can picture him in a black-and-white Hollywood romantic comedy trading witty banter with his heroine. His eyes are clear brown and deep-set. Somehow I can tell he smiles a lot. His thick black hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

Observable Fact: The ponytail pushes him from handsome to kind of sexy.

“Now you’re staring,” he says to me. It’s my turn to blush.

I clear my throat. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

“I have an interview later. Wanna go get something to eat?”

“What for?” I ask.

“Yale. Alumni admission interview. I applied early decision.”

I shake my head. “No, I meant why do you want to get something to eat?”

“I’m hungry?” he says, as if he’s not sure exactly.

“Hmmm,” I say. “I’m not.”

“Coffee, then? Or tea or soda or filtered water?”

“Why?” I ask, realizing that he’s not going to give up.

His shoulders shrug, but his eyes don’t. “Why not? Besides, I’m pretty sure you owe me your life since I just saved it.”

“Believe me,” I tell him, “you don’t want my life.”





WE WALK TWO LONG BLOCKS west toward Ninth Ave and pass no fewer than three coffee shops. Two of them are from the same national coffee chain (have you ever seen anyone actually dunk a donut?). I choose the non-chain, independent one because we mom-and-pop places gotta stick together.

The place is all mahogany and dark wood furniture and smells just like you’d think it would. It’s also just slightly over-the-top. And by slightly, I mean there are several oil paintings of single coffee beans hanging on the wall. Who knew coffee-bean portraiture was a thing? Who knew they could look so forlorn?

There’s barely anyone else here, and the three baristas behind the counter look pretty bored. I try to spice up their lives by ordering an overly elaborate drink involving half shots, milks of varying fat content, and caramel, as well as vanilla syrup.

They still look bored.

Natasha orders black coffee with no sugar. It’s hard not to read her personality into her coffee order. I almost say something, but then I realize she might think I’m making a race-related joke, which would be a very poor (on a scale from Poor to Extremely Poor—the full scale is Poor, Somewhat Poor, Moderately Poor, Very Poor, and Extremely Poor) way to start off this relationship.