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I MEET HIM DOWN AT THE BEACH where he has a flashlight covered in a red sock and his telescope set up on a tripod.
"I was worried you wouldn't come," he says. He shows me the telescope, explaining how he's set it up so that it takes a series of long-exposure images of a nebula. Then he leads me to a large blanket that he's laid out on the grassy part of the beach closer to the cliffs. He sits down on the blanket and hands me a pair of binoculars.
"Take these," he says. "I have another set. You can see quite a bit of detail with them."
I join him and we lie on the blanket, binoculars in hand, the sound of the surf in the distance and crickets chirping in the long grass. We stare up at the stars and he tells me all about them, naming them, reciting their type and age and class as if he's reading directly from a text.
"That's Kepler's Nova," he says, pointing up into the sky towards the constellation of Ophiuchus. "It's a supernova remnant about twenty-thousand light years from us. The last supernova visible in our galaxy. That's Barnard's Star," he says, moving his hand to another star. "One of the closest stars to Earth. There's another supernova in the Southern Hemisphere, but we can't see it so far north. Eta Carina. It's already gone off, but we won't see the explosion for years. When we do, it'll light up the night sky in the south. It'll be something to witness. I plan to be there when its light finally arrives."
"How do you know it's gone off?"
He says nothing in reply, just points elsewhere in the sky and describes the nebula at the end of Orion's belt.
"Is astronomy one of your areas of research?"
He's silent for a while before answering. "No. I've just had a lot of time to study it and learn."
"You're not that much older than me," I say, my voice chiding.
He just smiles.
I watch him for a moment longer and then turn back to the sky, acutely aware of him lying next to me. I want so much just to take his hand and squeeze it, but I'm not going to repeat the earlier silliness.
He has a map and a flashlight covered in a red sock to protect our eyes. He points to the map to show me the path the space station takes over the earth's surface. After a while, he turns over on his side and watches me. It's strange for I've only now just realized I can see him perfectly in the darkness, his skin silvery gray, looking like a cemetery angel in the moonlight. Finally, he reaches out and runs his finger over my cheek and I wait but he doesn't kiss me. Instead, he keeps his fingers on my cheek, his touch cool and dry.
Part of me feels sad that he doesn't kiss me for something's been growing inside of me – a feeling that I want more from him than just walks on the beach, passing time in a comfortable silence, the stillness broken only when something of note comes up. I want him to lie on top of me and kiss me, my pulse quickening and my body warming at the thought. I wonder if I'll ever meet someone and fall in love. Then he pulls his hand away before rolling onto his back once more.
He sighs heavily and I turn back to the sky and the vast emptiness of space.
In about an hour, after he tells me all about the main stars and constellations, most of which I already know, it's time for me to leave. It's getting late, and he hasn't said anything or done anything to make me think he wants to kiss me or more.
I point up to the cottage. "I better get back. My parents go to bed early and I don't want to disrupt things."
"Thank you for joining me. I enjoyed having company for this. It's usually a very solitary pastime."
I smile and after a bit of an awkward moment, start up the path to the cottage.
We meet in town one afternoon at the music store. That Saturday Michel shows up, and I see his reflection in a picture against the wall. He stands silently behind me and listens to me play a Bach prelude, but his presence causes me to falter and I stop and turn to him.
"Don't stop because of me," he says and motioned for me to continue. "Play something. Play your most favorite piece. The one that breaks your heart."
I turn back and hold my hands over the keys but something stops me, for my most favorite piece is also the one that hurts the most. It's the one piece my father loved more than anything and I'd been learning it when my mother died. Playing it brings back so many memories.
Michel comes up behind me, bending over me, his cheek next to mine, his hands covering mine on the keyboard.
"Just play it," he says softly, his mouth next to my ear. "Even if it makes you sad. I want to feel what it's like to play so beautifully."
I take in a deep breath and play the first bars of the Chopin,Ballade No. 1. The opening starts slowly enough and he's able to keep his hands on mine, but as the piece grows more intense, the tempo rising, he can only keep his fingers touching the backs of my hands as they move across the keys. Then, during the slow movement, he's once more able to lay his fingers over mine. As I play, memories of the year before my mother's death and my time studying piano in Budapest fill me with melancholy.
"So beautiful," he whispers when I finish as far as I can go. I can feel his lips against my cheek as he speaks. "That alone makes all of this worth it."
I turn and his lips press against my neck, brushing my skin like the kiss I've been desiring.
"Worth what?" I say, closing my eyes, imagining his arms around me.
But he doesn't reply. Instead, he removes his hands from mine and leaves me sitting at the piano, trailing one hand over my shoulder as he walks away. He stops at the door, the knob in his hand.
"I have to go," he says, leaving without another word.
