The sky stretches out endlessly above you and in all directions. It is the blackest you have ever seen it in the city and the stars shine like pennies in a fountain. A delicate curl of smoke is the only obstruction that mars your view, but you don't mind. The wind carries it away as you watch. You smile as it goes to visit the rest of the city that is lying at your feet. You are sitting high on the metal rooftop of an ex-industrial complex. You don't have the best view of the world below, but to your left is something better than that. Aubrey. You like the sound that name. You know what it means. King of the elves or king of the little people or something like that. Where had you learned that? You laugh into your hand as the man next to you puts his cigarette out under his shoe.
There is something about this man that draws you in. You had seen him arrive at the party from across the room. The girl with whom you were discussing why Charlie Chaplin is better than Buster Keaton had paused in the middle of a point to follow your eyes to the knot of people by the door. She shook her head at you, short hair flying out from her face. “That's Aubrey,” she told you with a small, sad smile. “Everyone always loves the bad boys, but they're called 'bad boys' for a reason.” The girl whose name you didn't know put her hand on your shoulder, before she walked away toward the other end of the table that held the snacks. She looked at you over her shoulder. “Don't even bother.” But you didn't listen to her, knowing she was wrong. He was smiling and talking with four or five people when you walked up. Someone turned to you – it was the hostess, Mallory. She was drunk, you could tell from the way she sort of bobbed as she stood. She gave you a happy, one-armed hug and told everyone in the circle your name and pointed out your garish sweater and its brilliance. You gave a smile to the group and ducked your head in greeting, but your eyes were on Aubrey.
Taking a deep breath, in part to feel the cool rush of clean air fill your lungs and partially to calm the butterflies that hatched from their chrysalis in your stomach not too long ago, you open your eyes wide to the expanse of sky. You love the way it sparkles. “God, I love the stars,” you say giddily. It's New Year's Eve and midnight is almost upon you, along with a new year. You feel as if you're on some kind of precipice, poised for some kind of wonderful fate, some destiny. It is the first time in a long time you have felt this way. Aubrey responds in a quiet voice, telling you that it's a good night for bad things. Unsure of what that means – or, perhaps, worried about what it might mean, thinking on the girl's warning, you just smile and cock your head to the side.
You look at the man. His eyes are a startling blue. You blink. The wind blows your hair in your face. You push it aside. “Is every night like that for you?”
The man's face breaks into a beautiful, dark smile that turns your stomach and frightens the butterflies back into flight. “Yeah.” He lights another cigarette.
With a laugh, you look back out to the sky. You lean back on your palms, sitting with your legs crossed, and wonder what will happen. The metal of the roof is cold and hard. Your mind is dizzy with giddy, spinning thoughts. Your heart begins to race to meet its pace. You wonder if you should kiss him. He looks like he needs a kiss, you think. But you don't think you can do it – even when he inches closer. You try to come up with something to say, but are too afraid to speak, lest you ruin the crystal silence that has settled between you and ends the moment. It is nice up here.
But then Aubrey says your name and your reverie is broken. A hand tucks your hair behind your ear and your heart almost melts. You don't know why, because it shouldn't be this easy, but you can't help it. It happens. You look into those blue eyes again, expectant. “Lets go back inside.”
Then it's over. The silence shatters and you pull a smile on your face, and for a brief second, before either of you rise to your feet, you lean against him.