For years, many have held on to the belief that the moon is deeply connected with woman, and the sun with man. Yes, those early misogynist shapers of the world. What else could man be associated with, if not the sun that gives life? Hubris blinded them, as is its nature. How they would toss and turn in their graves if I were to but whisper the truth to them.
For I am the moon. And I am man.
In the swirling blackness of night, once my sister has retired from the world, I lift my chambers high and view the Earth from the heavens. I sit right here in my chair and I watch and shine my light down, peeking from behind a waning crescent.
I watch as Debra Lemming slides a dress over her delicate frame. She takes a bus downtown and meets a man at a bar. It is the first time they have met in person, but they have talked online for two weeks. She feels as if she knows him. The man smiles a lot. He wears a beige Henley and dark expensive jeans. I cannot hear what they say to one another, but he buys drink after drink for her. Her head lolls and her eyes droop slightly, and the man rests his hand on Debra Lemming’s lower back. He whispers something in her ear and she giggles.
I watch them take a taxi back to Debra Lemming’s studio apartment. The lights do not turn on and I watch as they commit an act of spontaneous love. As I observe, I wonder what it would be like to grasp at another being with such desperate fervor. To twist and turn and entwine until two becomes one. Foolishly, I imagine that I am the man with the dark expensive jeans clutching at Debra Lemming. I allow myself this one small moment of impossible fantasy. One moment when I can pretend to not be alone.
One moment, perfect and fleeting.