A creamy orange glow illuminated her skin as wax fell in stripes down the body of the candle.  Blue sky slowly faded into dusky grey.  Their eyes met briefly, their gazes flitting confusedly like two butterflies, unsure where to land.   They sat opposite one another at the oaken table.  She was speaking.  He was attempting listening.  He watched her lips move, and imagined them moving against his own, against his body.  He wondered at this being, how they had even come together at this crossroads where matters of the mind and matters of the spirit intersect.  An energy drew us both here, she had said by way of explanation.  She spoke the language of the stars, he decided.  Her hands waved in excited circles and up and around, as her melodic voice spoke about ideas, emotions, and travels he’d never sought after.  He was a using his hands kind of guy.  He liked to build things, he liked the ribs from the place that he’d gone to since he was a kid.  He liked beer.  And her.  He didn’t know a thing about constellations, but could tell you all about fly fishing if you cared to know.  He spoke the language of his microcosm, and she loved all the macrocosm had to offer. 

He was so sure she was made of stardust that she might just float away.  We are all made of stardust, she said. 

When, weeks later, this intergalactic girl of the stars pulled this man of the fishing hole toward her, to press her lips onto his, she laid her hand on his chest and it glowed.  They merged then, sea and sky, hops and starlight, and the girl who’d seemed so far away suddenly felt like the only thing that would ever feel like home.