The Chosen and the Beautiful

by Nghi Vo

“I’ll bring you anything you want,” he said, and I tilted my head at him. “You ought not say such things to me,” I said gravely. “I might ask you for the moon, and what would you do then?” “Get it for you, of course.”

Aunt Justine once gave me some advice when I was newly come to New York. If I was going to be passing anything more than time in public with a man, I should always find out what happened when he heard no, whether it was from me, a taxi driver, a waiter, or his employer. “You may decide what to do after that,” she said, “but most times, your course of action will be clear.”

Nick laughed, and I wondered if that was what love was, making someone forget the pain that gnawed at them and would not stop.

The sky went still, and far above, I could see foreign stars, stars that moved, stars that winked at me, stars that shot across the sky like comets. Under the wrack and wreck of what had come before, the sky was new, and I reached for it with a yearning eager hand.