Eclypse

“And everything under the sun is in tune,

But the sun is eclipsed by the moon.”

– Pink Floyd, ‘Eclipse’

“You look so stupid right now,” you said, laughing at me. I laughed right back.

​“Have you seen yourself? We’re matching, idiot.” 

​The flimsy cardboard eclipse glasses were far too big for my face, so I had to hold them up with my hand the entire time. They didn’t fit your face either, but you were stubborn and insisted it was fine. You thought I didn’t notice how your head tilted up to try and balance them on the bridge of your nose. I didn’t mention it.

​“Could you pass my sandwich?” I asked, taking the glasses off to stop you from looking so dark. Restored to me, you glanced toward the basket on your lap. Your glasses fell off with the movement; you pretended it was intentional. You passed me my sandwich.

​“Thank you,”

​That day was colder than they’d forecast. We’d driven all the way to Vermont, to some grassy knoll by the border, hoping to make a cute date out of the total solar eclipse. We thought something so rare must be worth seeing together. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with you after dinner one night, dirty dishes between us, both on our phones, trying to figure out how often eclipses occurred. Every 18 months, apparently not that rate. But you pointed out, proud of your pedantry, that that only stood if you could travel worldwide on a whim to watch. Obviously, we didn’t have that luxury. We kept searching for a more specific, more realistic answer, but eventually gave up. It was too hard to find, and we didn’t want to work for something so meaningless.

​“It doesn’t matter what the actual probability is,” you announced, turning off your phone and placing it face down between us. I looked into your eyes. They were dark brown — so dark that at night, they were black, circular shadows against the whites of your eyes, blocking out all light. ​

“We can make it special ourselves, right?” you suggested with a grin. “We can pretend it’s rare; it’s more romantic that way,” 

​Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite as romantic as we’d intended. The wind was sharp, and we weren’t dressed for the weather. We shut your car’s doors with overenthusiastic thuds and stretched our aching legs, only to find our breath coming out in bursts of mist. It wasn’t long until we started shivering. 

“Picnic in the car?” I suggested.

​“Picnic in the car.” You sighed, shoulders drooping.

​So, we sat on folded limbs, food and drinks spread across our laps and the dashboard. 

​“At least we can listen to music this way,” I pointed out, turning the AUX back on. It was an attempt to stop you from looking so sullen. You’d wanted this to be romantic, and I didn’t want you to think you’d failed. I can’t remember what song it was — one of yours, not mine — but you said you weren’t in the mood for it and skipped it. You skipped another. Then a third. A fourth. You kept skipping. You didn’t want to settle.

​“No music?”

​“No music.” 

​We ate quietly. Then I remembered the glasses. At least they made you laugh. I think you liked to watch them slip off my nose. You found comfort in my awkward grip, securing them in place. I get it. It’s nice to remember that you’re not the only fallible person in the world.

Neither of us was infallible. We pretended not to be disappointed by the windshield between us and the open air, but it wasn’t working. I still remember the smell of your car. Pine-scented air freshener over air conditioning and gas. Those bad parts you wanted to hide never stayed entirely hidden. I didn’t mention it.

We ate our sandwiches and watched the sky darken. The eclipse shadow spread over everything. It was inescapable, all-consuming, so strong that the world looked almost dystopian.

And yet, I felt nothing. Maybe I was being cynical, but I wondered if the drive and the cold and the stiff legs had been worth it. I stopped looking at the eclipse after a few seconds. I looked at you instead. At your side profile, your slightly parted lips. You were in exaltation, staring at that gaping circle in the sky like it meant something. All I could think about was how I didn’t get it. It meant so much to you, and I didn’t get it.

The car ride back home was quiet. You still didn’t want to listen to music. I spent most of the time looking out at the night sky. The moon and stars were bright against the black. I thought they were beautiful.

“Hey,” you murmured. I glanced again at your side profile. You kept your gaze ahead.

“Hey.”

“Is this… working?”

I was quiet for a moment, watching you watching the road. 

“I don’t know.”

“Right.”

The car rumbled beneath us. 

After a moment, you continued speaking, slightly out of key with the rumble. “We tried, though, right?”

“We tried,” I agreed.

All of this is to say that I’m not sure I was right. I’m not sure we did. After all, eclipses aren’t so rare. And why work for something that feels so hard and meaningless?

Maybe we could’ve gotten there with a little more effort. There was distance between us and the sky, and I didn’t always love your darkness. But I always noticed it. I saw you. I just didn’t mention it. 

I’ll mention it now.