Rambles | A Short Story Collection

Dancin' in the Dark

Martinez threw her head back, pricks of light pin-wheeling across the blackness above. The star-spangled sky was flung before her: an invitation. A beckoning hand. A curse.

A chill breeze tossed her curls, and she shivered and pulled her ratty flannel closer.

Mal curled his hand around her shoulder, squeezing tight. Though it was reassuring in its own way, she wished he hadn't. Warm and firm, his hand was a reminder of leaving, of running, of all the things she couldn't bear to face. Because his hand was steady now, and he was a comfort, and she would leave.

She was sure he knew it.

It had been his idea to come out here. To run to the mourning call of a midnight train and down to the river. To let the long grass scratch at their legs and let their bare feet skim along the padded earth. To bring the wine (which would be warm now) and sip it from paper cups and let it keep away the crisp night.

These were always his kinds of ideas. The romantic and the spontaneous. The thoughtful ideas.

The selfless ideas.

"You decided to leave, didn't you?" Mal's voice was steady, like his arm around her, like the thudding in his chest. Martinez leaned into him, considering her words. The breeze whistled and crickets chirped, water rippling lazily in front of them. The peace would be shattered by her restlessness.

After all, how could she stay? Could she stay because of his arms around her? Because of how he kissed the tip of her nose on Sunday mornings to wake her up? Or because of the silly (and usually horrible) jokes he told her, just to make her laugh?

Or could she stay because he was willing to let her go?

No, she couldn't. She couldn't.

"Yes." Her voice was as steady as his, though it was barely a whisper above the whistling wind. She stretched her legs, letting her feet dangle into the water. Mal tugged the blanket tighter around their shoulders, drawing her closer to him. And always knowing what to do, he kissed her temple gently.

Martinez closed her eyes, a fire burning behind them and in her throat.

"I just..." she started. She glanced up at him.

"I know." He smiled tightly, a first betrayal of how he felt. "I knew as soon as you got the chance. Argos, yeah? You had to go. You have to go."

"I know, but Mal. I can't, can I?" She shook her head, curls tickling his chin and nose. "It's a long time. I can't ask you to wait." Martinez scooted forward a little, shifting into a more comfortable position.

He laughed. "Don't ask then. Two years? We can do that."

Her gaze wandered up again, considering the stars. "Comms won't be great, and there won't be video comms once I get there, with twenty eight light-minutes between us. So our messages will be relayed through the SAS the whole time."

She grimaced. They might read the messages too; censor them if necessary to keep the crew focused on their mission. She didn't say this. "And it's getting better, but space travel to Argos isn't completely safe." Martinez was quiet, letting the swish of swaying trees fill the night.

It was cruel to hang on to him, to want to explore the universe and have him wait around for her. And what if (what if, what if) she never came back? Sure, he had friends and work and family and hobbies. She wasn't his whole existence (and vice versa), but the thread connecting them would be taut and fraying, stressed for two years.

And she loved him.

Who could help him during that time? Who could help her?

"It's my choice," Mal said, "and your choice. Don't cut me off because you think I can't handle it, okay? I can if you can. Can you?"

After a moment, she nodded and leaned into him again. Martinez tilted her head, studying his face. Mal's eyes gleamed with moonlight, more enticing than the planets and stars for a moment, for a breath.

Comfort was never something she'd been interested in though. She wanted Argos, the faraway planet, digging through the dusty earth there, flying through the abyss. No, she would come back to Mal, but she had to go. What was between them would survive, and that thread connecting them would bring her back eventually.

It had to.

They stayed, quiet for a moment, letting her decision settle between them. Martinez nearly couldn't bear the quiet and was about to break it when Mal touched her hand. She squeezed it, and he pulled her to her feet, twirling her around in the process. The blanket that Martinez had been gripping fluttered out of her grasp, and she laughed in surprise before breaking away from him. She curtsied and Mal gave an exaggerated bow before offering his hand with a flourish.

The distance between them closed, as she pulled him close, nuzzling into the crook of his neck and draping her arms around his shoulders. His hands found her waist, head resting against hers. They settled into a slow waltz, the moon shining on the water and throwing their figures in high relief.

"I'll miss you," Martinez whispered in his ear. There was nothing else to say, so she didn't. The world spoke for her, the rhythm of the swaying trees, the playful breeze rustling the grass, burbling waters and crickets and frogs. The whole night speaking words she couldn't say.

He kissed her softly. "I know." He could say no more either, and she tried not to guess his reasons. She tried not to peer into his mind and heart, afraid of what she might find. Afraid she'd give up the skies and stars for someone she could not bear to leave.

He couldn't read her mind, but he knew her. He always seemed to know what to say, what to do. Softly, he crooned a tune in her ear. An old Springsteen song that she vaguely recognized, sad and soft and true.

"You can't start a fire sitting 'round crying over a broken heart.

This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark.

You can't start a fire worrying about your little world falling apart.

This gun's for hire, even if we're just dancing in the dark."

Mal's words drifted off in the wind, and he hummed the rest. Soft and sad and true. She curled her arms around him, as though he was the last solid thing she would feel for two years.

This wasn't enough. Not yet.

The stars beckoned.