LJ Idol Week 39: Gambler's Fallacy
i.
He cupped her face in his hand with as much softness as he could, so not to wake her. He nestled closer, matching her breath. She sighed and rolled toward him and his fingers got lost in her hair. This, he thought. This moment.
The world was young; Earth's dirt so new it was all moist and dark. Plants and men grew together in wonder, worshiping the sun and dancing beneath the moon. The sky was full of magic when it grew dark, and he and she would sit together to watch light fall, then sleep til the sun rose.
Lately, she'd grown colder and shorter with him and had taken to falling asleep while he watched the sky alone. He relished the night when her face became relaxed and her bones softened against him. She was his, and that was what he knew better than anything.
One day, it occurred to him that if they left early enough, they could make it up the big hill in time to see all the colors as the sun fell beneath the ground. He was sure it would be a better vantage, and it would be impossible for her face not to warm in the glow. She would smile, maybe even take his hand. They could sit under the sky's night lights and everything would be better.
He ran home to find her, pausing briefly to pluck wildflowers and whisper a thank you to the Earth. The flowers became impaled by his fingernails when he took in the sight of her. Her face was lax, happy and warm, until her eyes opened. She was peering at him over a broad shoulder that wasn't his. The world slowed for a moment as he breathed in, then out. In the span of that breath, her flesh melted into the other man's. She was his. He didn't breathe again.
He held his head high and walked past them to his spear, fashioned of wood and bone. He thought of the sound it made ripping through the air. He thought of berries on his tongue. He thought of the sky. On no breath at all, he turned his spear on himself. One moment he was there, and the next he wasn't.
He sat with the Father for a very long time, legs crossed and palms open. The colors were like the setting sun, and the Father had embraced him before they sat. After that, they did not speak for a very long time. "Just think," the Father had told him. "Just reflect."
He had not spent all his days on the Earth; he had only been alive for nineteen years and a few days more. Still, he had much to remember. The first thing that came was new stars in a sky of ink. The sun followed, streaking into blue on its way up and bringing fire on its way down. He remembered the mother, when he was very small. She smelled like grass and held him close. He remembered berries on his tongue. And then, at the end, there she was. She curled against him, his hands in her hair. This moment, he thought.
He held that moment for a century cupped between his two hands. He poured it round his fingers, brought it to his nose--she smelled like wood. This moment was his moment.
When he looked up, the Father was looking at him. "I'm ready," he told the Father.
"You want to go back?" asked the Father. "Tell me what you've learned."
He thought for a very long time. "I learned that the sun rises and falls, but even in the dark the sky will be full of light. I learned that life exists in the quiet, in small moments."
"What did you learn from your death?"
He locked eyes with the Father. "I learned to keep breathing."
The Father nodded. "There is one more thing," he said slowly. "The girl."
"The girl." He nodded back.
"You'll find her again; it's an inevitability. But you don't have to repeat things. There is a chance she learned from her time spent on the Earth, but there is a chance she has not. You cannot count on her to change," the Father cautioned.
He took a slow breath in and held it. "I won't count on it. But it's possible? She could have changed?"
The Father said, "There is always the chance."
"It went wrong last time. Maybe this time has to be different."
The Father shrugged. "We cannot count on her journey. Just take what you know and hold it close.
ii.
He held her face in his hands softly, trying not to wake her. She stirred, but quickly settled back into sleep. He pulled her in closer. This, he thought. This moment.
Everything was so fresh and exciting in the world. Pieces were falling into place and men were looking to the sky for answers. Shouting how's and why's into the stars, they'd quest for knowledge beyond Earth. The night sky echoed back, deep calling to deeper.
The only thing he loved more than the sky was his woman. The moment their eyes had first locked, he had known. She took his breath away--she was the only one he wanted. Their romance was quick and sweet; he swept her off her feet with flowers and they floated together, happy. At least, he was happy. She seemed to grow more distant, more annoyed by his studies.
Her apathy pained him; he wanted so badly to see her alive again--excited, even. So when she approached him one evening and told him she wanted to talk, he nearly leaped from his chair with excitement as he asked, "What can I do for you, my love?"
"I'm sorry," she said.
This caused him to swallow hard, a knot in his belly rising into his throat. "Sorry? What for?"
She would not meet his eyes, and he wanted to touch her face. He did not. "I've been thinking," she started. "I just don't know how to put this. There's someone else."
Someone else kicked him in the gut and he doubled over. "I love no one else but you. I love nothing but you. Please don't do this," he whispered. But a beggar may not choose his fate, and when he looked into her eyes, he saw she was already gone.
The stars disappeared and the nights grew as cold as they days. He told himself she'd be back, but months passed and he was still alone. One night, he climbed to the top of a tree on a hill near his home. There were many stars, he knew, but he only saw one. He rubbed the rope round his neck with a tenderness his fingers had not grasped in far too long. More stars came into focus beneath his closed eyes, and he jumped.
The Father welcomed him warmly with an embrace and an, "I'm sorry, son." And so they sat more, facing one another, one small and one very large. This time they were silent longer than the last. When the Father spoke, he asked, "Do you want to go back?"
He looked at the Father. "Yes."
"Tell me what you learned," said the Father.
"I learned that there is so much more than the Earth. I thought one day I'd get to see into the space beyond. It's beautiful. The Earth must be so tiny; the stars look small but they must be so much larger than I can even guess."
"What did you learn from your death?" asked the Father.
He thought for a moment. "Even when I can't see the stars, they're all still there."
The Father smiled and patted his hand. "They are." The Father studied him careful, then asked, "What about her?"
He looked down. "I love her."
"I know," said the Father.
"Has she changed?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
"I can't tell you her path. You know that," said the Father.
"But there's a chance?" he asked.
"There is always a chance," said the Father. "But before you return, please consider guarding your heart now. If you guard it now, you can always choose a different path yourself. You don't have to pick her."
"But she might be different this time?"
"She might," said the Father.
"I'm ready," he said.
iii.
He buried his face into her hair, making spoons of their bodies and finding her waistline that always seemed to fit his hand just right. She sighed, but did not awaken. He rubbed his nose against her neck and inhaled. This, he thought. This moment.
The world was such a busy place, and it was becoming more crowded by the moment. People had turned to the sky for a solution. Ever since he was a little boy, he wanted to go to the moon. As an adult, he got his wish--he had traveled to the moon and even beyond. Space was unlike anything he had ever experienced, but he felt completely at home, almost as much as here with her.
Being an astronaut left him away for long periods of time, and reunions were bittersweet. They were always happy to see each other, but he could feel her resentment growing each time. "You love your job, not me," she would say. It hurt him to his core because it simply wasn't true, but he knew she still felt she was second.
On their sixth anniversary, he planned a surprise trip to the conservatory. She had always loved flowers, and he thought it would make her smile to see so many all in one place. He told her he had to work, then spent the morning preparing for a picnic. When it was two o'clock, he came for her. He called out to her as he opened the door, but he was met only with silence. She'd never given him a reason to worry, yet he was filled with a new dread as he opened the bedroom door. He did not find her. Instead, he found a note, penned with careful consideration.
I had to go, it read. There is nothing for me here. Please don't look for me. You won't find me.
She signed it with love, but when he brought it to his face there was only paper and ink. He wept; it was as though the stars went out before his eyes.
After the note, he threw himself into the sky. His work became his purpose, though it never became his first love. Instead, he put love aside and focused upward. He played an integral part in the mission that left the Earth with her first colonization on Mars, the first of many new forays into space. When he died, he was very old and very sick. His heart had never healed from its loss, but still managed to beat steadily until he simply had to stop.
The Father held him close. "You did well, my son," he said. And together they sat as another century passed, then two or three more, until the years were swirling by.
Finally, the Father spoke. "How are you feeling?"
He looked up. "Ready."
The Father nodded. "Tell me what you learned," he said.
He didn't hesitate. "I keep going," he said. "I learned that I am ever-expanding, like the sky, like the galaxies. We grow and grow, and there is always space for more."
The Father held his hand. "You have grown. I'm proud of you." Then a pause, as always, before the question came: "What about the girl?"
"You cannot tell me if she has changed."
The Father shook his head.
"It was so long ago. I had a whole lifetime after her. Surely, so much could change in that time; am I not right?"
The Father bowed his head. "Indeed," he said, "there is a chance."
"There is always a chance," he said, studying the Father closely. "Three times it's gone wrong. It has to go right once."
"Does it?" The Father cocked an eyebrow as he spoke. "There is a chance that it will go right, and a chance it will go wrong. Each time, there are both these chances."
"I am ready," he said. "And I'm willing to face my odds."
iv.
He rubbed her back gently and she turned toward him. She was breathing so softly in her sleep and he brought his lips to her forehead. She smelled exquisite. When he was a boy, his grandfather had brought him a special gift--a tiny, bright star in a small pot. "A flower," he had told him. "Like they used to have on Earth, where we came from. They have been trying to recreate them, and I'm told this one is pretty close. I snatched it just for you." The flower didn't last long, but its scent lingered in his mind. She smelled of the flower. This, he thought. This moment.
Her lashes fluttered on his chin. "Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," he whispered back.
He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her lips to his own.
"I love you so much," she whispered.
He cupped her face in his hand with as much softness as he could, so not to wake her. He nestled closer, matching her breath. She sighed and rolled toward him and his fingers got lost in her hair. This, he thought. This moment.
The world was young; Earth's dirt so new it was all moist and dark. Plants and men grew together in wonder, worshiping the sun and dancing beneath the moon. The sky was full of magic when it grew dark, and he and she would sit together to watch light fall, then sleep til the sun rose.
Lately, she'd grown colder and shorter with him and had taken to falling asleep while he watched the sky alone. He relished the night when her face became relaxed and her bones softened against him. She was his, and that was what he knew better than anything.
One day, it occurred to him that if they left early enough, they could make it up the big hill in time to see all the colors as the sun fell beneath the ground. He was sure it would be a better vantage, and it would be impossible for her face not to warm in the glow. She would smile, maybe even take his hand. They could sit under the sky's night lights and everything would be better.
He ran home to find her, pausing briefly to pluck wildflowers and whisper a thank you to the Earth. The flowers became impaled by his fingernails when he took in the sight of her. Her face was lax, happy and warm, until her eyes opened. She was peering at him over a broad shoulder that wasn't his. The world slowed for a moment as he breathed in, then out. In the span of that breath, her flesh melted into the other man's. She was his. He didn't breathe again.
He held his head high and walked past them to his spear, fashioned of wood and bone. He thought of the sound it made ripping through the air. He thought of berries on his tongue. He thought of the sky. On no breath at all, he turned his spear on himself. One moment he was there, and the next he wasn't.
He sat with the Father for a very long time, legs crossed and palms open. The colors were like the setting sun, and the Father had embraced him before they sat. After that, they did not speak for a very long time. "Just think," the Father had told him. "Just reflect."
He had not spent all his days on the Earth; he had only been alive for nineteen years and a few days more. Still, he had much to remember. The first thing that came was new stars in a sky of ink. The sun followed, streaking into blue on its way up and bringing fire on its way down. He remembered the mother, when he was very small. She smelled like grass and held him close. He remembered berries on his tongue. And then, at the end, there she was. She curled against him, his hands in her hair. This moment, he thought.
He held that moment for a century cupped between his two hands. He poured it round his fingers, brought it to his nose--she smelled like wood. This moment was his moment.
When he looked up, the Father was looking at him. "I'm ready," he told the Father.
"You want to go back?" asked the Father. "Tell me what you've learned."
He thought for a very long time. "I learned that the sun rises and falls, but even in the dark the sky will be full of light. I learned that life exists in the quiet, in small moments."
"What did you learn from your death?"
He locked eyes with the Father. "I learned to keep breathing."
The Father nodded. "There is one more thing," he said slowly. "The girl."
"The girl." He nodded back.
"You'll find her again; it's an inevitability. But you don't have to repeat things. There is a chance she learned from her time spent on the Earth, but there is a chance she has not. You cannot count on her to change," the Father cautioned.
He took a slow breath in and held it. "I won't count on it. But it's possible? She could have changed?"
The Father said, "There is always the chance."
"It went wrong last time. Maybe this time has to be different."
The Father shrugged. "We cannot count on her journey. Just take what you know and hold it close.
ii.
He held her face in his hands softly, trying not to wake her. She stirred, but quickly settled back into sleep. He pulled her in closer. This, he thought. This moment.
Everything was so fresh and exciting in the world. Pieces were falling into place and men were looking to the sky for answers. Shouting how's and why's into the stars, they'd quest for knowledge beyond Earth. The night sky echoed back, deep calling to deeper.
The only thing he loved more than the sky was his woman. The moment their eyes had first locked, he had known. She took his breath away--she was the only one he wanted. Their romance was quick and sweet; he swept her off her feet with flowers and they floated together, happy. At least, he was happy. She seemed to grow more distant, more annoyed by his studies.
Her apathy pained him; he wanted so badly to see her alive again--excited, even. So when she approached him one evening and told him she wanted to talk, he nearly leaped from his chair with excitement as he asked, "What can I do for you, my love?"
"I'm sorry," she said.
This caused him to swallow hard, a knot in his belly rising into his throat. "Sorry? What for?"
She would not meet his eyes, and he wanted to touch her face. He did not. "I've been thinking," she started. "I just don't know how to put this. There's someone else."
Someone else kicked him in the gut and he doubled over. "I love no one else but you. I love nothing but you. Please don't do this," he whispered. But a beggar may not choose his fate, and when he looked into her eyes, he saw she was already gone.
The stars disappeared and the nights grew as cold as they days. He told himself she'd be back, but months passed and he was still alone. One night, he climbed to the top of a tree on a hill near his home. There were many stars, he knew, but he only saw one. He rubbed the rope round his neck with a tenderness his fingers had not grasped in far too long. More stars came into focus beneath his closed eyes, and he jumped.
The Father welcomed him warmly with an embrace and an, "I'm sorry, son." And so they sat more, facing one another, one small and one very large. This time they were silent longer than the last. When the Father spoke, he asked, "Do you want to go back?"
He looked at the Father. "Yes."
"Tell me what you learned," said the Father.
"I learned that there is so much more than the Earth. I thought one day I'd get to see into the space beyond. It's beautiful. The Earth must be so tiny; the stars look small but they must be so much larger than I can even guess."
"What did you learn from your death?" asked the Father.
He thought for a moment. "Even when I can't see the stars, they're all still there."
The Father smiled and patted his hand. "They are." The Father studied him careful, then asked, "What about her?"
He looked down. "I love her."
"I know," said the Father.
"Has she changed?" he asked, though he knew the answer.
"I can't tell you her path. You know that," said the Father.
"But there's a chance?" he asked.
"There is always a chance," said the Father. "But before you return, please consider guarding your heart now. If you guard it now, you can always choose a different path yourself. You don't have to pick her."
"But she might be different this time?"
"She might," said the Father.
"I'm ready," he said.
iii.
He buried his face into her hair, making spoons of their bodies and finding her waistline that always seemed to fit his hand just right. She sighed, but did not awaken. He rubbed his nose against her neck and inhaled. This, he thought. This moment.
The world was such a busy place, and it was becoming more crowded by the moment. People had turned to the sky for a solution. Ever since he was a little boy, he wanted to go to the moon. As an adult, he got his wish--he had traveled to the moon and even beyond. Space was unlike anything he had ever experienced, but he felt completely at home, almost as much as here with her.
Being an astronaut left him away for long periods of time, and reunions were bittersweet. They were always happy to see each other, but he could feel her resentment growing each time. "You love your job, not me," she would say. It hurt him to his core because it simply wasn't true, but he knew she still felt she was second.
On their sixth anniversary, he planned a surprise trip to the conservatory. She had always loved flowers, and he thought it would make her smile to see so many all in one place. He told her he had to work, then spent the morning preparing for a picnic. When it was two o'clock, he came for her. He called out to her as he opened the door, but he was met only with silence. She'd never given him a reason to worry, yet he was filled with a new dread as he opened the bedroom door. He did not find her. Instead, he found a note, penned with careful consideration.
I had to go, it read. There is nothing for me here. Please don't look for me. You won't find me.
She signed it with love, but when he brought it to his face there was only paper and ink. He wept; it was as though the stars went out before his eyes.
After the note, he threw himself into the sky. His work became his purpose, though it never became his first love. Instead, he put love aside and focused upward. He played an integral part in the mission that left the Earth with her first colonization on Mars, the first of many new forays into space. When he died, he was very old and very sick. His heart had never healed from its loss, but still managed to beat steadily until he simply had to stop.
The Father held him close. "You did well, my son," he said. And together they sat as another century passed, then two or three more, until the years were swirling by.
Finally, the Father spoke. "How are you feeling?"
He looked up. "Ready."
The Father nodded. "Tell me what you learned," he said.
He didn't hesitate. "I keep going," he said. "I learned that I am ever-expanding, like the sky, like the galaxies. We grow and grow, and there is always space for more."
The Father held his hand. "You have grown. I'm proud of you." Then a pause, as always, before the question came: "What about the girl?"
"You cannot tell me if she has changed."
The Father shook his head.
"It was so long ago. I had a whole lifetime after her. Surely, so much could change in that time; am I not right?"
The Father bowed his head. "Indeed," he said, "there is a chance."
"There is always a chance," he said, studying the Father closely. "Three times it's gone wrong. It has to go right once."
"Does it?" The Father cocked an eyebrow as he spoke. "There is a chance that it will go right, and a chance it will go wrong. Each time, there are both these chances."
"I am ready," he said. "And I'm willing to face my odds."
iv.
He rubbed her back gently and she turned toward him. She was breathing so softly in her sleep and he brought his lips to her forehead. She smelled exquisite. When he was a boy, his grandfather had brought him a special gift--a tiny, bright star in a small pot. "A flower," he had told him. "Like they used to have on Earth, where we came from. They have been trying to recreate them, and I'm told this one is pretty close. I snatched it just for you." The flower didn't last long, but its scent lingered in his mind. She smelled of the flower. This, he thought. This moment.
Her lashes fluttered on his chin. "Hi," she whispered.
"Hi," he whispered back.
He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her lips to his own.
"I love you so much," she whispered.