Daylight Dreaming

Lola saw stars everywhere. In the galaxies of cream in her coffee, in the sunlight glancing off the stream on the way home, hanging in the air around her when she stood up too quickly. Everywhere. Like reliable friends. They lived in the sun, in dewy trees, in her sister’s blue eyes and in the black expanse of sky. Lola loved the sky. It was where her friends danced and laughed. Sometimes, she visited. But most of the time she just watched.

She hung above the abyss of space, looking down down down into its never-ending maw, tethered only to a patch of grass on a terrestrial hill by a force she couldn’t see or touch. But it held her. It held her captive no matter how much she willed it to let her go. By god she wished it would let her go. And then she could fall into the welcome company of friends, and they would greet her with their bright smiles and winking eyes. And she would be happy. And she would be loved and content and full in her heart and warm in her soul. By god she wanted to be warm.

Lola walked to work. She saw the stars in the gravel stones in the road, and in the sleepy gaze of other commuters at her usual coffee shop. She arrived at the library, and they were there in the stained-glass window, in the dust motes that swirled through light streams in the storeroom. She smiled at them, and they smiled back.

Lola helped customers, stacked books and filed library cards, the day passing in the same way that every day did. Nonsensically. She was distracted. Searching for the sparkle of otherworldly visitors who might take her far away. The knife-like glint of star speckled surfaces enough to cut through her reality and pull her into its embrace. The other girl working in the library asked Lola what she would do this weekend.

Not much.

Will you see friends? You could say that.

Will you go somewhere? Hopefully.

Lola walked home. Her phone rang. Her mother. She didn’t answer it. She didn’t like to talk too much.

She stopped at the coffee shop again. That was her routine. One in the morning to keep her up for the day, and one in the evening to keep her up for the night. Lola scarcely strayed from her routine.

The barista smiled at her. Winked.

Do you have any plans tonight? Yes.

You wouldn’t have time for a bite to eat? No.

Another time then? Lola walked away.

She turned down a familiar lane, pushed through the squeaking gate of her yard and crossed to the front door. She dropped the key, bent to pick it up, and smiled at the light glancing off of it in star-like flecks. She stayed crouched that way for a while.

When she finally drew herself back to the present for long enough to focus, she entered her home, breezing passed unfolded laundry and unwashed dishes. She passed the fruit growing mouldy in the bowl on the bench, the plants dropping shrivelled leaves onto the sill. She didn’t notice them.

In her bedroom she collected a familiar rug, holding it up to the window just to see the golden light passing through the tiny holes dotting the fabric, before tucking it under her arm. She finished her coffee, retrieved her keys and phone out of pure habit, and paused briefly before the cracked mirror in the entry way to adjust her hair. It fell into its usual dull array, but Lola barely noticed it, because there were stars in her eyes.

She was on her hill, wrapped in her star filled rug, gazing with star filled eyes into the star filled black. And she was happy. And she was warm. And she wasn’t alone. Lola breathed deep, imagining she could suck stardust down into her lungs. The air on the way out was laughter, full of mirth that only the company of her truest friends could bring out in her. And they laughed too. She could see it.

Eventually Lola fell asleep, and she dreamed of flying, of living deep in space. It was mercifully dark out there. Overwhelmingly quiet. Lovely. Eternal…

***

The sun was up. Her friends were gone. Her phone was ringing. Her mother. Lola supposed she should answer it. She reached for the device, but something stopped her, catching her gaze just beyond its buzzing screen. Stars gleamed in dew drops scattered throughout the grass. She watched them, absently switching the phone off, the call forgotten.