20 December 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 4
Three days into its wane and glowing orange, the same color as the lights along the highway, the moon hung low and large on the horizon. It looked very much like a man-made thing strung on a wire, with only a passing resemblance to the celestial object rumored to impact human behavior.
"I don't mean to be a dick," he said as she drove them west on I70, "but in this light you really look your age."
She was older by five years. Their ages faced off over the line between twenty-something and no longer twenty-something, but he looked like a boy still in college whereas she had matching but fading bath towels and a beaten-down couch in a home that she owned.
"And I don't mean to be bitchy," she said, "but I wouldn't trust you with a checkbook the way you look in any light."
He reached over, tugged her earlobe, and laughed.
They had been introduced by a mutual acquaintance two weeks prior, began fucking like rabbits a week ago, and were now on their way out of town for sex-in-a-different-setting.
The moon was still full enough to convince her that she felt lashed to it, dragged along like the tide, but its presence was no longer so commanding that she believed the feeling would last. Soon the moon would be an impotent half circle with one blurry edge. Not long after that it would be nothing at all. But for now, it was still just imposing enough for her to pretend. So she did.
Notes on this piece:
"Remnant" and "Pendleton," by Valerie Vogrin, were written as companion pieces.
About the author:
Elizabeth Moore is a graduate student in the creative writing program at Southern Illinois University Edwardsville. She is currently at work on her master's thesis.