"Seeing Stars" by Jude Potts

Remember the night we fell in love? A pebble beach under us, stars above.  I leaned in to kiss you and tasted beer and sea salt. Lying on a tartan blanket, you told me no one ever kissed you in a way that made you feel like you were falling, and flying, and spinning all at once. We saw a shooting star that night. Do you remember, Stella?

You told me the shooting star was an omen. We were meant to be. I woke the next morning with the corona of your blonde curls tickling my nose, breathing in your salt-tang, sun lotion scent. I longed to trace the constellations of freckles on your shoulders, but didn’t want to wake you and break the spell.

I found our shooting star the next day. It was nothing but a star-shaped plastic, helium-filled balloon, its scrunched-up silver foil shell already flaking and faded, the helium half gone, its string snagged in a tree. I never told you that, did I?

Your bags and boxes gradually filled my damp little studio. Your lotions and potions cluttered the tiny shower room where I heard you retch and gasp every morning. Too early for that galaxy of cells, swirling and splitting in your belly to be mine. Did you think I didn’t know? You wanted me to believe, so I believed. Because I loved you. I never believed that lie, just the happily-ever-after I wished for on a plastic star-shaped balloon skittering across the sea on a night breeze. You, me, and a tiny nebula of life.

 I climbed the tree and unhooked the string, rescued our shooting star. Even though it was plastic, it was real to me.

You ate banana and bacon sandwiches in bed. I doubled my hours and bought a crib, saved for a deposit on a bigger place, carried you over the threshold like the bride I promised to make you. Did you have your fingers crossed when you said yes? Or did you mean it, just for a little while?

I kept that deflated balloon in my box of treasures. Your number; a neon lipstick scrawl on a paper napkin. A photo of you, round-bellied in denim dungarees, yellow paint smudged on one cheek, the day we decorated the nursery. The promise ring I gave you. Every memory feels like a plastic shooting star.

I bought a star-shaped plushy the day Astrid was born. I cradled her while she slept, my heart a starburst of love. You were as distant as the Milky Way. Exhausted, I thought, but there were already light-years between us.

Astrid was three when you left, but you’d started slowly slipping away long before; whatever feelings you had for me deflating like that tatty old balloon. You took your potions and pots, your sun lotion and shoes. You slammed the door behind you and drifted off, buffeted by unseen breezes. Astrid, in her play pen, hugged her plushy and gave me a twinkling smile. My true north star.

Jude is currently working out what she wants to do with her life after being a full-time carer for several years. She has writing in a few places, including Does It Have Pockets, Punk Noir and Trash Cat Lit. She never says no to tea or cats, is partial to puns and wordplay and has phobias of jelly and squirrels.