Geminid
By Melissa Flores Anderson
Listen to a reading of this story by Melissa:
I stand outside in the dark in a pair of flip flops, my feet achingly cold. I stare up at the inky sky. I am alone in the dark, wondering why this all feels so familiar. And then like a match, my head tilted westward, my brain lights up.
I’ve done this before, on a different December night. Five years ago, the atmosphere was brisker and hazier. The chances of seeing any shooting stars slimmer. But I stayed outside for an hour, watching every moving object in the northern hemisphere. From a mile away, you gazed up at the same patchy clouds traveling from the coast to the mountains through our valley, in the cul de sac outside your childhood home.
We texted and turned in circles to take in every inch of the night, in case our sense of true north was off. I shivered in a sweater, but refused to go inside to put on a winter coat, desperate for us to catch sight of the same bright streak across the night sky. Because what luck it would be to see the same shooting star at the same time, double the luck.
The cloud cover obscured whatever might have been in the heavens that night and you called defeat before me.
You still call defeat before me, drift away, like stardust lost in the galaxies.
Tonight, I asked you to join me at a holiday party, but you declined, saying the trek wasn’t worth it. I stood alone by the hors d’oeuvre table wondering when I’d become not worth it and Charles wandered up, still in his navy suit from the work day, his smile drawing others in. He mentioned the meteor shower to the group, not to me in particular. Something to say in a mixed crowd.
I drove the long way home alone and you barely glanced at me when I stepped through the door. I slipped out of my dress into a tank top and yoga pants, and your gaze stayed on the television. You didn’t ask where I was going when I opened the sliding glass door without turning on the porchlight.
So I am outside, in flip flops again, pretending this is spur of the moment. I text Charles to ask if he’s watching the stars, and what direction I should be looking in. I’ve texted him before, about work, not casually. I imagine him standing outside his house, 50 miles away, us shivering in unison. I close my eyes and open them when my phone pings with a return text. Charles’ text says to turn toward the northeast and look up. And there it is, a faint glimmer that eluded me five years ago, the double luck I’ve been missing.
We text at the same time did you see that, and then jinx, and it’s like a small miracle has passed. A connection to something outside of ourselves. To the cosmos or another heart, no matter how temporary.
Melissa Flores Anderson is a Latinx Californian and an award-winning journalist who lives in her hometown with her young son and husband. A three-time Best of the Net and one-time Pushcart Prize nominee, her creative work has been featured in more than 40 literary venues and anthologies, including swamp pink, Chapter House, ELJ Editions and HAD. She is a reader/editor with Roi Fainéant Press. She has co-authored a novelette, “Roadkill,” (ELJ Editions) and a chapbook “A Body in Motion” (JAKE). Her first full-length short story collection, "All and Then None of You," (Cowboy Jamboree Press) is forthcoming in September 2025. Follow her on Twitter and Bluesky @melissacuisine or IG/Threads @theirishmonths. Read her work at melissafloresandersonwrites.com.