"We're born in the stars," she says, staring at a jeweled sky.

She always says stuff like that. Something that seems weird at first, but makes sense later. She reads a lot. Everything from Harper's Bazaar to grammar textbooks. Sometimes I wonder why she's with me.

I don't read much. Too boring. I can't sit still long enough. Besides, all the best books are made into movies these days.

"All that's just a giant cradle," she says, her pale arm sweeping the sky.

I pull her close, her jasmine and peppermint perfume an oasis in the blooming sage. She pulls the blanket around her. Her body is so cold.

"Everyone?" I ask, laughing. "That's a lot of stars."

She clicks her tongue. "See there, that bit of the Milky Way? There are more stars there than grains of sand on the beach."

My eyes trail the glittering river across the sky, imagining millions of blazing suns. Suddenly I feel insignificant.

"Just people?"

She thinks for a moment. I stroke her nipple through the thin blanket. She shivers, her voice falters. "The smaller stars are animals."

We lay together, her body pressed against mine, the blanket the only barrier between us. An occasional coyote howl breaks the silence.

"Where's my star?" I ask, just to hear her voice.

"Guess." Her fingers stroke my stomach, roam lower. I hear her sly smile as she feels my reaction to her touch.

"That red one. That's gotta be my star."

She laughs. It's been too long since I've heard it and I savor every pure note, "That's not a star, that's Mars!"

"Well, men are from Mars. Saw that on one of them women's shows."

"Not my man." She lets her words drift on the night. I thought she may have forgotten the question when she points. "There. That's your star. I'd know it anywhere."

I follow the tip of her finger to a white star low on the horizon. It twinkles like a Christmas tree on crank.

"Which one's mine?" she asks.

I search the sky. "That one there. The blue one just above the mountains."

She sighs. I wrap her light body in my arms.

"What happens when a star dies?"

She's silent; her thoughts guarded. When she speaks her voice is low, barely above the cricket's chorus.

"Stars don't die. They become black holes which are gates to Heaven."

"What happens when a person dies?"

The silence is longer. She trembles, wraps the blanket tight around her shoulders.

"Their star dies. They go through the gate."

I hold her against me, praying for bright stars.

* * *

I feel her lying next to me. I slam my palm into the hard earth, feel the pricking of barbed thorns. Still, I run my hand across the ground, letting it soak up her phantom warmth.

I stare at the low horizon where my star shines, alone. The bright blue star gone from the heavens.

I watch my star, waiting for it to die.