Walking back from the party, we stopped in the middle of the cold, dead road, and turned, and watched three shadows come out of the blackness toward us like long riders without horses. Three a.m. Or he did.
What are you waiting for? I asked.
I'm waiting to see who these people are.
We had heard their voices, late-leaving friends. We had just been gathered in the living room, door closed against the cold. She had made a fire. Woodsmoke in our sweatshirts again. I don't wear sweatshirts. I turned upward.
What are you waiting for? he asked.
I'm waiting to see a shooting star.
Oh Ali, he said. Your hopes are so much higher than mine.
