He watched begrudgingly as the shooting stars sailed above them in the heavens. Meteors from the perseids, a lucky clear night sky gave up a shower of hope filled wishes.
“What should we wish for?” She asked hopefully.
“Dunno!” He replied fumbling in his jacket pocket for his tobacco.
“I wish you would stop smoking for starters.” She barked uncontrollably.
He shuffled awkward and offended, but it was too late, the words were out of her mouth lingering in the starry sky between them; yet another thing between them.
He rolled his tobacco, lit it and created his own array of shooting stars.
She stood apart from the smoke and gazed skyward. Silently she made wishes. I wish I was a shooting star. I wish I could make wishes come true. I wish for a soul to meet me right here and hold my hand.
I wish he was gone. I wish he wasn’t here. I wish I’d said goodbye before I came here to see the falling diamonds.
He nipped his cigarette out. Blew the smoke into the air from his lungs and asked, “Do you want to get married then?”
He mistook the tears welling in her eyes for joy.
“Maybe I will get married one day. But not to you.”
He staggered backwards, stunned and the silence coated them like morning mist. Suddenly, the scene became ugly and contorted. The shooting stars stopped falling. One thousand wishes couldn’t repair this dream.
“You don’t love me then?” He choked.
“We’re too opposite.” She spluttered.
The explanation was insufficient as he stared at her face.
“I thought you wanted some… something more…”
“I do.” She whispered, “Just not with you.”
She could have mistook his tears for joy at the favour they were doing each other by not getting married, but they were too beautiful on his cheek to lie.
A shooting star fell, splintered in the atmosphere, she held out her hand as if to catch it for him and said.
“I wish you love and happiness.”
And he kissed the inside of her palm and then held it. He nodded and said.
“Same for you.”