By George Nevgodovskyy

I dream about the house party again. Outside a tree falls and it’s black as space. The power goes. We are two satellites colliding in the sky. Pieces set ablaze rain down on Earth.

We talk into the night – the last to leave. Stalling to avoid reality. Then, outside, holding hands until your taxi comes. Clasping fingers in the dark. The cold swell of your wedding ring. 

I watch the taxi carry you away. Sometimes I run. Sometimes the taxi stops and you appear. There are no streetlights overhead, no stars. Nothing exists in space but you and me. 

Then other times the tree withstands, the lights remain. Our orbits never wander off their course. We never even learn each other’s names.  

And everything is easier that way. 

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George Nevgodovskyy was born in Kiev, Ukraine, but has lived in Vancouver, Canada for most of his life. He has previously been published in East of the Web, Rejection Letters, Literally Stories, Fairlight Books, and others. He does his best writing after everyone else has gone to sleep. Check out his work at georgenev.blogspot.com.