Robert Roy Britt | Daniele Murtas
“Gorgeous,” Sara said.
“So round and full,” Anaya said.
Lying on a blanket at the beach, only their hands touched. Anaya was eager for the night to play out. The sun and moon had just see-sawed horizons. The fat low moon flung nervous yellow bits of itself across an unusually still Pacific of dark velvet, lapping at the shore lake-like.
“Bigger than you expect,” Sara said.
Anaya wove her fingers into Sara’s, squeezed.
“A lover’s moon.”
Anaya was thinking the same.
“You know it makes people crazy,” Sara said.
“The full moon. I read it on the internet. Suicides, emergency room visits, crazy shit at psychiatric hospitals. It all, like, doubles.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Anaya said. “Those are wives’ tales. Science has found no connection. Anyway, the full moon doesn’t have noticeable small-scale effects on our bodies. Or our brains. Or our behavior.”
“Sure,” Sara said. “Throw your science at it.”
“We’re just too insignificant to be whacked by the gravitational differences of the lunar cycle.”
“I read that surgeries go bad. Dog bites increase. I mean, just think of wolves howling. When do they do that the most?”
Anaya pulled her hand away.
“Our periods, even,” Sara said. “How do you explain that?”
“That they’re a month apart, like full moons,” Sara said.
Anaya pulled herself up on an elbow, faced Sara. “This is lunacy. Menstrual cycles vary widely, from 21 to 35 days, in fact. Yours and mine aren’t aligned, as just one example. The average is 28 days. The full moon comes around every 29.5 days, without fail. Are you having your period tonight?”
“No,” Sara said. “But you’re using anecdotal evidence now.”
“Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”