girl. arm full of stars. pocket full of paris metro tickets. they started as one, blossoming slowly, unnoticed over time, into many. the stars, i mean. maybe the metro tickets too, but that was hardly a surprise. the stars were far scarcer and appeared not by turnstile purchase nor summoning, at least of the human sort, but on their own, one by one until the girl’s entire arm was covered, marked like a night sky chart and mixing with the freckles that dotted her arms and curved up around her back.
they were ink, or something like. the stars, of course, not the freckles. a deep black, pressed beneath the skin. they were welcome, not alarming, something of a comfort, especially today when the rain ran in thick rivulets down from the sky, the clouds fearsome and grey above, the chill of winter returned despite last week’s spring warmth, and the pockets full of metro tickets lacked other necessary items, like grocery money or bus fare or the mailbox key which had been missing all week; and was sorely missed at that.
she was not concerned with the appearance of the stars, on and off, but with their apparent inability to bring other situation-saving magic into her life. girl. arm full of stars. a navigation chart in the wrong era. she dreamt of trade ships on the atlantic, sea serpents marked on incomplete maps, cavernous passes and impermeable darknesses guided only by the heavens. rent was due. the stars were less than helpful in this regard. money did not rain down from the grey skies. when she looked into the night sky, every so often, a flash of silver moon winked at her from behind cloud-cover. the mailbox key turned up in her pocket, and she imagined herself a lighthouse beacon for lost things, winking between cloud-cover.
five dollars bought a tomato plant and a small measure of optimism on the walk home, but by night it was bitter cold again. the tomato plant waited indoors by the radiator. the dog knocked over her water dish and the rain spilled over onto the kitchen tile, an indoor-ill omen. floods haunted her dreams and by morning she had forgotten them all, but not the feeling of sinking, stone-heavy, in the watery abyss. stone-heavy, she swam out the side door and into the dawnless morning. stone-heavy, she returned home again.
the tomato plant was more patient than she, and thus she was the one to burn her dinner, book in hand at the unmanned stove, dreaming of stoic helms. the story began to tell itself, in perfect, rambling detail. click, clack. run along, wordsmith. the burnt dinner sits at the kitchen table with the box of canned goods, the bag of russet potatoes, the groceries untouched, task daunted and unapproachable. new stars peek out behind constellations, behind shoulder blades, unnoticed and unannounced. they are discovered two days later amidst the steam-shower morning, the tomato plant sitting on the sink-counter drinking in the steam.
stars creep down her back as she sleeps, dreaming of patchwork-sky quilts and stiffly typed keys and locks stuck with frost, lingering, and an ocean of distance between herself and an uninvited consequence. the price of eggs and milk goes up. she buys unnecessary and expensive pomegranate seeds and eats them for dinner in a cold kitchen. the radiators rumble and groan, the tomato plant looks on in practiced disinterest, the lights hum and buzz and ask in not-so-subtle ways for fresh bulbs and maybe a good break.
she dreams of fresh dark coffee and fried green tomatoes for breakfast, a meal she doesn’t eat, and wakes to the rising tide knocking at her door. the city has flooded, and yet it stops at her threshold. she is a little lucky, she decides, and more stars climb down the backs of her legs and nestle at the soles of her feet. they walk her to work and home again, and keep the streetlights brightly lit around her. the porch light is a beacon home, tomato plant rightfully situated beneath.
the shower upstairs springs an overnight leak. men in work boots tramp in and out for the rest of the day. the men leave dust trails that she chases with the mop immediately after they shut the door behind them, and on the tops of her bare feet she spies another set of stars. that night she is dreamless, or else, dreams unremembered, blissful.
april showers meet april thunderstorms. she and the dog play cards in the basement and listen to the ground shake. that night she dreams of the starless sky overhead, and she realizes that all of the stars have fallen into her skin instead. when the sky returns the next day, the constellations are freckled, joyous, familiar. tomatoes thrive on the vine, home is warm and rainless, last frost never comes, and the dog is kept in salmon and rice every night. when she looks at the night sky, she sees only herself. it is a fair trade, she thinks.
