The Passionfruit and the Crescent Moon

“Moon” is both a noun from nature, and a verb of desire. I think of “to moon,” or “to dream about,” and I imagine languishing nude upon a divan of royal purple and mustard velvet, or idling in a clawfoot tub of rapidly cooling water, with the background switching in and out like a theatrical scenery: a starless grove during the witching hour, a road in the Midwest leading to a a fried chicken joint ensconced in a strip mall, the surface of Earth’s satellite. There isn’t much in the way of this dark, existential beauty in my younger brother’s room, where I sit alone now in the same clothes I’ve been wearing for four continuous days, but my mind finds it easy — perhaps dangerously so — to descend into the escapism of other times, spaces, and emotions.

I fling an arm out from the divan, the bath, and prop myself up, both legs swinging over and out. I’m naked in the New Delhi airport, at one in the morning. (Here, bodily nudity is a visual metaphor for vulnerability of the heart.) The Scorpio and I sit surrounded by our banged-up luggage, expansive ceilings framed by frosted glass, and hour-by-hour fluctuations in world currencies, labeled in cerulean and orange neon. I confess to him that I am possessed by the urge to hurt people that I know care for me to test the limits of their love; exhausted, but understanding, he reacts with companionable silence. With him I feel the level of kinship shared between all passionate signs who who pursue validation and fear rejection.

There’s an eternal pull in the air, in the desultory conversation, which I recognize as the narcotics of intimacy, and which the Scorpio later describes as “universal love.” He threads an arm around my shoulders. We discuss future meetings with the detached assurance of two people who will never see each other again. There’s a dusty, voluptuous softness to his eyebrows and eyelashes, a sensuality that reminds me of smudging and warming dark oil pastel between my fingers. This is not a romantic attachment, I promise, but, truthfully, it has all its traps, shadows, and addictions.