Wicked Moon


A pretty thing, that moon. Catching on the caps of the waves, hanging over the liquid horizon, glowing as if lit by a thousand candles – it’s a beautiful sight. But such beauty comes at a cost, the magnificence in exchange for a little happiness. You have to give something to get something. In the past, to bask in the moonlight was to invite bad luck, to change the make-up of a person, transforming their body, their mind, their blood into something different, something dangerous.

There is a reason for the term ‘lunatic’ (from ‘luna’ meaning moon), and something to the pull of that satellite that turns normally sane and reasonable couples into antagonistic adversaries. The last time we had a super moon, Andy and I ended up getting in a huge fight. The same thing happened this time around. After a pleasant dinner and an after-dinner drink, we got into it (though I will not get into it here – that’s another story for another day). It is sometimes said that every couple has the same fight, over and over again, and unless one or both of the people involved really changes, the fight will continue. Maybe that’s what was happening. After thirteen years, there were character traits and personality quirks that still hadn’t quite reconciled themselves. In some ways you learn to live with it, but sometimes you still fight back.

I stormed off into the evening. Alone. It was nearly midnight. Only the moon would guide me…

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