“Where I’m from the stars are all over.”

We’re lying on a sloped, dry, grassy bank next to a highway. There should be cars.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you look over there,” I point, “and you look over there,” I point, “and it looks the same. Even and equal.”

She pauses for a while. There’s no rush. It’ll be a while till anyone comes. And we’ll be able to hear them.

“But stars are stars. They’re just there.”

And she strokes the sky with her palm. And she lingers on the line of the milky way and stretches out a finger and runs along the length of it, and back again.

“And especially there”