“Forage Within the Shadows” by James Morena

Eloy stares at his partner: tall, broad, sinewy. He watches her stretch mustard-colored tights over her strong calves. He observes as she surveys her right then left profile in their long, slender mirror. He takes notice of how Roxy’s blue dress clasps her unfamiliar chest, ribs, waist.

“Do you think I’m still a selenophile?” Eloy says, sitting cross-legged a few feet away on their loveseat. His shirt crinkles near his belt. His tie dangles askew. His voice shaky.

“What do you mean?” Roxy continues to scrutinize herself. “Why wouldn’t you be?”

“A French guy created a formula,” Eloy shifts onto one hip, “that redefines the Moon as a planet.”

Roxy walks into the master bathroom. Her heels clack. Echo. Muffles along the carpet when she returns to the bedroom. Her head tilts as she stabs earrings into her ears.

Eloy thinks about their trips to Melbourne, Australia. Pre-E. When they danced as green spirits alongside red and blue dragons and booming drums and marching mystical animals. When they weaved in and out of other strong, sweaty bodies as they moon worshiped under billions of blinking stars. When smiles hurt their faces for days and when they felt the closest.

“Of course you are,” Roxy says. She inhales, holds for a four-count, exhales until she appears ten pounds thinner.

“But if it’s no longer a moon,” Eloy says, staring into the dark of the floor and dresser.

He wonders if his life has been a lie. Was he ever really a selenophile? Were the yearly parades a waste of time? The protests. The fights for equality. “Look what happened to Pluto,” Eloy says to the room. Then he thinks about one of the times he argued with his father, who hates moons.

“I wish Project A119,” his father yelled, “or even the Russian E-4 had been successful.”

“You’re crazy,” Eloy shouted back.

“Then there would be no moon. There wouldn’t be lunatics like you.” His father’s finger pointing between Eloy’s eyes.

“We all would’ve died.”

“Why? Because there would be no tidal cycles. Menstrual cycles.”

Eloy wanted to hit something. To shake his father. To scream so loud glass shattered.

“Selenophiles,” his father turned, stiff as a board, to face him, “are evil.”

“They’re people,” Eloy whispered.

“They believe in the crescent moon. That opposes Abraham and Moses.”

“So what?”

“Satan,” his father said.

Eloy stared into his father’s brown eyes, quoted from the Declaration of the Rights of the Moon, “The Moon has ‘the right to exist, persist, and continue its vital cycles unaltered, unharmed, and unpolluted by human beings.’”

Roxy steps in front of Eloy. Sways. Her long, black hair wavy. Her hands soft. Eloy wants to reach out, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ears, like he had many times before, but he doesn’t.

Eloy’s gaze instead traces her toes to neck. “Does this mean I’m an astrophile?” he says.

“A what?”

“I don’t think that I could love planets.”

“No one is saying you have to love them.”

“Or outer space.”

“Look at me,” Roxy says. She squats. Places her palms on Eloy’s thighs.

Eloy flinches, recognizes hints of Pre-E: mustache, resonance, a blushed-over scar on her left cheek. He remembers when they swapped jeans and T-shirts and wore the same brand of boxer briefs. “We can still share running shoes,” Roxy had said. A grin covered her face. Her hair hadn’t yet grown long. Her makeup still amateur.

“No one can tell you what to love,” Roxy says, still squatting.

“But the math proves it’s no longer The Moon.”

Roxy stands. Flattens her dress. Walks to her vanity. Eloy side-eyes her as she unscrews perfume. Dabs the lid onto the underside of each of her wrists. Turns to face him.

“You’re a selenophile,” Roxy says with heavy breath.

“People have already accepted it,” Eloy again looks into the dark of the floor and dresser.

“Please,” Roxy says and sits next to Eloy on the loveseat. She stretches her arm across his back. “I don’t understand what’s the matter with you.”

“I only love moons. Not Venus. Jupiter. The Milky Way,” Eloy looks at the ceiling. “Black holes scare me. I don’t care about constellations. Only moons.”

“I love you, Eloy.”

Eloy continues to stare at the ceiling. He thinks about how The Moon has always been a stabilizing factor for him. He had joined clubs where other moon lovers had laughed and chatted and felt safe. They ogled through telescopes and drank hot chocolate. They sang aloud with Pink Floyd and felt comforted by the brightest and largest object in the night sky. He was a selenophile. He loves The Moon, and he wants to continue to be allowed to mark the river’s swell and the opening and closing of the underworld’s gates and knowing when it’s time to celebrate the harvest.

“It’ll always be The Moon,” Roxy says. “No one can change it.”

“They can.”

“People won’t let the French guy. Other selenophiles’ll stop it.”

“It makes no difference what we say.”

Roxy takes her arm from around Eloy. She grabs his hand. Interlaces her fingers with his. Their breathing the only sound.

“They can’t take the Moon away from the Earth,” Roxy whispers. “It’s a moon because it orbits us.”

Eloy again looks toward the dresser, says, “It’s about the body, not the location.”

“You’re still a moon lover.”

Roxy glances at Eloy: shoulders slumped, back rounded. She squeezes his hand a little tighter. She waits to see his reaction. See any sign of belief. Understanding. At least feel a reciprocated hand pressure. When Eloy shows none, her eyes hunt for whatever holds his stare. Then she, too, allows her eyes to forage within the shadows.