all the way around

all the way around

it was the fifth grade the first time she learned about circumference.
and it was love at first sight; she had to have them.
all of them.
so she started with circles that she drew herself on paper,
but that wasn’t enough.
she measured every one of her superballs
and then every one of her brothers’
and then every pogo ball in the 5th grade recess stash.
she kept the measurements in her log book,
careful numbers with careful illustrations next to each one.
the log book was really just a reappropriated diary that her grandmother had given her for her 8th birthday,
one of those little white ones with an angel’s picture on the front and a tiny lock and a tiny key.
it was a trick, she was sure.
what kind of person would keep their darkest secrets in a clearly-marked SECRET DIARY?
that little lock could be picked with a paper clip.
obviously grandma was up to something,
or somebody was.

at any rate, the log book worked fine for her purposes,
her purposes being inches and centimeters and occasional pencil-doodled hearts.

her parents thought it was a phase she would grow out of,
but she grew up, not out.
by the time she was 22, she had married the equator.
the religious folks were outraged- “what’s next?” they cried
"pretty soon people will be marrying... chairs! and other household furniture!”

they were afraid and they were angry.
but she didn’t care what they said. she knew they had never been in love.

by the time of their divorce, she was tired of the tropics. he got the kids. they grew up in maine, of all places.
she was 29 and had given up on love. she had 14 log books, but not one of the basketballs or bb pellets or honeydew melons caught her fancy. she was tired of love and tired of looking. measuring, recording, first date, it was all too much.
and then she met jupiter.
she was at a business party held at the planetarium, and as she sipped her champagne and wandered listlessly, looking into various telescopes like all the other guests, he said her name. and she looked at him. he was so huge and round she’d never in all her life be able to record him.
she liked that.
she and jupiter went out for coffee a few times, she always got a large iced tea and he got a small cinammon latte. and after just a few weeks of coffees and fancy dinners and cutesy goodnight text messages, she pulled him in and kissed him. run away with me, she said.
and so they did.

they honeymooned in aspen, and after that they toured the galaxy so she could meet his family. they were all very nice, even pluto, who was sort of the family black sheep since he fell in with those asteriods. she spent a couple nights at their place, sleeping on constellations and playing with the little ones.
they lived like happy newlyweds late into their fifties, when one night he came home late and drunk, unhappy.
what is it? she said, and stroked the red, circular birthmark on his chest.
and he collapsed into her arms, sobbing like a child.
i am tired, he said.
the same thing, every day. no no, it’s not you. you’re the only thing i have that isn’t part of this routine.
i’m tired of the orbit, of the monotony.
i want to go away, to fiji maybe, or somewhere no one’s ever seen.
but you love the orbit! she said, trying to soothe him.
he sat up, bright-eyed, intense, and intoxicated.
don’t you ever wonder if there’s something bigger?
she had.
don’t you ever want to go there?
she had.
run away with me, he said. i want to see the universe with you.
she smiled
and her eyes lit up like they hadn’t since she was a child.

“can we go... all the way around?”