As an atheist, I’d like to think that I’m not superstitious. There are lapses, however, that test one’s willpower. It was a woman who taught me different.
On her face were freckles and moles that were in the exact shape and size of the Big Dipper. After I was intimate with her, I found entire constellations on her back and all over her body. When I asked her, she said I was seeing things and no one else had observed the same. I dropped the subject—she seemed sensitive about it—but double checked with a book on stars while she was asleep. Surreptitiously I looked from her skin to the book and back again, eventually taking photo of her to make completely certain. She had on her skin the southern and northern hemispheres’ (front and back, respectively) night skies. Freckles for stars.
Of course, this was random luck, or so I told myself over and over. I knew this and yet I could not let go of the feeling that there was something special, holy about her. And my rational brain would rise up and suppress those feelings; yet like all methods of suppression that don’t kill all involved in any way in the insurrection, it failed, and the rebellion resurfaced in different ways: mainly in the form of my infatuation with her despite her many shortcomings (a temper and selfishness being among them).
I grew to love, yes love, her and especially those constellations written into her skin by reaction to the sun. In my most metaphysical moods, I would wonder if out sun was perhaps trying to say something; and even if I were to be in a scientific mood, I would grow sentimental about how the sun had etched a map of all its brethren on the skin of star dust (and in there were the makings of a religion, I was sure).
But the love was doomed to fail. My infatuation grew into something like blind obedience, for I was certain she was chosen in some respect and that as a result of this she was filled with wisdom. So her ideas and plans —petty things, really—I would work on to force into reality. She sensed this and soon had me wrapped around her finger. I was released from her grip, not when she grew bored of a blind dog, for she surprisingly didn’t, but when she found photos of her next to a print out of a constellation of stars. She flew into a fit and after trashing all my stuff, left.
And yet I always kept a close eye on her, hoping to one day see something prophetic from her, something to lead out people of star dust to better material outcomes.
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