Star Search

(A short story)

In a little old house in a little old suburb north of Boston, Boyfriend and Girlfriend are enjoying a little old bottle of wine on Valentine’s Day night. We join them moments after Boyfriend has received his gift and is about to present Girlfriend with hers...

“Happy Valentine’s Day!”
Boyfriend hands Girlfriend a piece of colored parchment paper. She puts down her wine glass and examines the document with furrowed brow.
She says, “Thanks,” but it comes out sounding like a question.
“It’s your very own star, baby!”
“Oh,” Girlfriend says. “It is?”
“Yeah, I named a star after you with the Global Star Federation! That’s your certificate of authenticity. It’s all very legit and on record with the US Bureau Of Intergalactic Affairs.”
Boyfriend’s eyes, mouth and arms are open wide in anticipation. He can’t believe how masterfully romantic he’s become, stunning her with his ingenuity. Soon she’ll rush to his embrace.
“Is this that thing you hear about on the radio?”
Or not.
He straightens up a bit.
“No, those guys are frauds. This here.” He points at the paper. “This is the real deal.”
Still looking at the paper, eyes scanning up and down, left to right, Girlfriend says, “Gee honey, you shouldn’t have.”
“Think nothing of it,” he says, aware he may be aiming a little high.
“No, I mean you really shouldn’t have.”
A pivotal moment, Boyfriend attempts to rally.
“But wait till you see it. It’s beautiful.”
He hands her another piece of paper. She turns it over and back.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a sky chart, so you can locate your star.”
“Show me.”
Boyfriend moves beside Girlfriend.
“Well.” He squints at the chart. “It’s about a trillion miles...Oh, never mind. Come outside and I’ll show you.”
Boyfriend leads Girlfriend through a slider out onto the deck. It’s February in New England, about 15˚ above zero. Boyfriend walks Girlfriend to the far corner where a heavy-duty tripod with a fork arm mount supports a three-foot long telescope pointed toward the heavens.
“Viola!”
He’s excited again. All is not lost, yet.
She hesitates, unsure of what to do.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Just look through the viewfinder.”
Girlfriend inspects the end of the telescope closest to earth.
“No, no,” Boyfriend says, pointing. “The eyepiece is there, on the side.”
Sweeping her hair behind an ear, Girlfriend leans forward. A visible chill, more about winter than anticipation, runs through her.
“There’s just a great big cluster,” she says.
She backs away, examining the instrument.
“Let’s see what this does.”
She begins adjusting the pan handle, rotating the unit away from Boyfriend’s prefixed coordinates.
“NO! WAIT!”
“Now it’s all blurry,” she says.
Boyfriend moves over and not so gently nudges Girlfriend aside.
“That’s because you just pointed it toward another galaxy! It took me over an hour to find that star.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Girlfriend says, beginning to shiver steadily from the cold. “It was really sweet of you to go through all this trouble.”
Boyfriend peers into the telescope, spanning the cosmos.
“Where are you little star...”
“It’s really not that big a deal, baby. I’ve got my certificate right here.”
Fingers growing numb, Boyfriend doesn’t seem to be making any progress. Exasperated, he mumbles, “Stupid fuck.”
Girlfriend’s eyes narrow.
“What was that?”
“Huh?”
He looks at her innocently.
“Oh, I said, ‘Cupid’s luck.’ You know, losing the star and all.
“Uh-huh,” Girlfriend says, nodding, teeth starting to chatter. She looks up at the sky. “Well, you better hurry Galileo, it’s getting cloudy, pretty soon we won’t be able to see my present.”
“Well, maybe if you hadn’t messed up my calibrations we’d be back inside by the fire, all...what did you call it? Snuggy wuggy?” This last part drenched in sarcasm.
“Don’t be so sure of yourself. You keep this attitude up and you won’t be all snuggy wuggy with anyone.”
She fills her lungs with frigid air then exhales, watching her icy breath flitter away like ghostly vapor.
Going for one final attempt to salvage Valentine’s Day, and avoid frostbite, Girlfriend says, “It’s okay, really. I’m pretty sure I saw it somewhere up there.”
“Somewhere up there? That’s just great. Do you have any idea how much all this costs?”
“You mean your new telescope? Don’t tell me you bought that for me. Besides, I’ve got my proof of ownership right here.” She holds out the paper once again, points at the bottom line, tapping it with her finger. “See right here, it says, SCHMOOKIE BEAR.”
Boyfriend looks up from the viewfinder, rage creeping into his eyes.
“Perhaps I should’ve called it SHIT-FOR-BRAINS-BEAR!”
Silence.

Another pivotal moment arrived at during all Boyfriend - Girlfriend arguments: Boyfriend crosses a line, usually with a personal attack featuring language he wouldn’t use in front of Girlfriend’s mother. Sometimes Girlfriend cries and Boyfriend sleeps on the couch, other times Girlfriend digs in, eager to engage.

Eyes glistening, Girlfriend’s chin quivers. Then, in an Incredible Hulk-like moment, her jaw sets and the tears recede. She’s digging in.
“You bastard! I give you a Cartier Pasha watch for Valentine’s Day and you give me a fucking needle in a goddamned celestial haystack. Which, I might add, you can’t even find. Why didn’t you save some money and drive up to Good Harbor and name a grain of sand after me? For all we know there’s some other idiot over in the next town trying to show his girlfriend the same star, claiming she owns it. Or maybe somewhere out in Texas. Or Moscow. How could you fall for such a scam?”
“It’s morning in Moscow, genius. No one’s showing anyone stars in Russia at this hour.”
Boyfriend’s clearly lost his edge. If he quits now, he might still get the couch.
“Not the point,” Girlfriend says. “Did you even stop to wonder who the hell gave this...” she looks at the paper again, “Global Star Federation, the naming rights to the universe? What if some of those stars were already named by some other beings on some other planet? Such arrogance.”

The argument has reached the point where neither party has the slightest clue what the other might say next. They’re so angry they no longer feel the chill that has turned their lips blue.

“Let me get this straight,” Boyfriend says. “You’re making a political statement out of this?”
“NO, I’m making a final statement about THIS!”
Girlfriend waves the paper in an exaggerated arc, meant to take in the entire scene on the deck. She turns and heads toward the house.
“Looks like you bought yourself a nice telescope, honey.”
Boyfriend’s voice, softening, “Does this mean no snuggy wuggy?”
“Happy Fucking Valentine’s Day Asshole!”
And just before the slider slams shut.
“Same to you, Bitch!”