On an Edge of Glass

When I look over, Ben is leaning back in his chair, attention on the unfolding universe of planets and stars playing out on the screen up above. 
    I wonder if I imagined the delicate graze of his lips against my skin, but in a splinter of spangled light, I catch a small knowing smirk playing on his face.  He looks over and away quickly, but it’s enough to cut through me like a jolt of lightning.
    Trying to settle my pounding heart, I focus my eyes on the show.  It’s all about the Milky Way—about the hostile environment that created the swirling phosphorescent galaxy, and the solar system, and ultimately, us.  I watch, enthralled, as the cosmos is laid out in brilliant hues of purples and reds and silvers.
    Later, we stop at this tiny Italian place between the planetarium and home.  It’s only got one large window at the front.  The walls are painted an awful shade of buttery yellow and the furniture is dingy and worn, but it smells like heaven on earth.
    A s a short woman, with her graying hair in stiff bob, leads us to a two-top against the far wall, Ben grazes his hand over my lower back and promises in a low whisper that the food is wonderful.   
    We get a bottle of cheap red wine to split between us.  It tastes a little vinegary , but neither one of us minds.  It’s such a normal, everyday thing, but I like sitting across from Ben.  As he talks, I watch his mouth move and the way his eyebrows work.  
    The waitress who comes to our table is thin and a tad craggy.  With a frown, she serves us baked pasta in huge gaping bowls that look like they could easily feed five people.  The cheese on the top of my food is still steaming so I peel it back and let the pasta cool for a minute before I risk a bite. 
    Ben is right about this place.  The quality of the décor and the service doesn’t coincide with the way that my dinner tastes.  I’m already thinking about how much Mark would love to come here.  He’s always complaining that you can’t find real Italian food outside of New York.  Or Italy. 
    I t doesn’t take long for me to stuff myself to the brim with manicotti.  I set down my fork and lean back in the wooden chair and listen to Ben describe the crazy conductor that he worked under last year.  I laugh a lot and the conversation bends and weaves the way good conversations tend to do.  We talk about everything—from how I think I did on the LSAT, to which was our favorite Power Ranger when we were growing up, to how we both feel about labeling guidelines for genetically modified foods.
    N ow, as we walk on a narrow cement sidewalk outside the restaurant, we are under a real-life dome of glimmering stars and talk veers back to the planetarium show we saw.  I think about a quote that the narrator used right before the show concluded. 
    My head falls back.  My face is turned up to the night. “Do you remember it?”  I ask Ben.
    “I think it was something Carl Sagan said.”  He stops walking and pulls his cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. 
    “ You’re right.  It was definitely a Carl Sagan quote.  Something about DNA and particles or something like that,” I add, rubbing my hands together for warmth and watching the hazy clouds of my breath fading into the darkness.
    “ I found it.  We were right about it being Carl Sagan.”  His brown hair drips over his forehead as he reads from his phone.  He is encircled in the flickering light of a dying streetlamp.  “ The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the carbon in our apple pies were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff.”  
    “Starstuff,” I say, letting the newly discovered word make its way around my mouth so that I can get a feel for it.  I smile to myself.  “I love that.”
    Ben reaches over and covers my cold hands with his and lifts them to his mouth.  He warms them with two short bursts of his breath and then rubs my hands between his palms.  His eyes, when they find mine, are like a confession.  “Me too.” 
     
     
    We pull up to the house encased in an absorbing quiet.  Almost apprehensively, Ben walks me inside the empty house.  He’s humming softly.  Slowly, he runs his thumb along the palm of my hand, tracing the chaotic trajectory of lines there. 
    Me?  I’m trying my best to breathe properly and not let my full heart boil over.
    At my door, Ben’s long fingers brush the loose hairs away from my face.