The moon was low in the sky, a big, white bulb; flowers would sprout from it, if it would just plant itself in the stars.

But it stayed above stars, below stars, in front of stars. It was the greatest star.

A gentle hand brushed Kip's face. Falling leaves from the tree above them glanced off his arm, one landed in her hair; picked it out, kissed her, lay back against the trunk; felt the bark against his back, felt the hand brush his face, felt the wind pull at this shirt; smelled the cut grass from beyond the neighbor's fence, smelled her skin, inches away, smelled her sweet skin, millimeters away, touching him.

Katrina stared him right in the face.

"Right in the face, Kip," she'd say whenever she wanted his attention. She already had his attention.

"You've got the saddest eyebrows I have ever seen," she said. She raised her own. "You'll live to be 106 years old. You know that?"

The saddest eyebrows met, frowned in earnest confusion.

"And you weird me out more than anyone I've ever seen," he said.

"That's a silly thing to say. Do you see me weirding you out?"

Met again. "I guess not."

Her hair brushed against his shoulder. He could smell it, carried on the breeze with the grass clippings. It mixed pleasantly. He sighed.