“Tell me a story,” she said.

They were lying, side by side, not touching, atop a hotel in the heart of the city, through a rooftop access he had found and could no longer remember finding. He looked out across the expanse of sky, the moon a sliver of light, a few stars lonesome; far and away from each other.

“What kind of a story?” he asked.

She closed her eyes, waiting, thinking, “Any story. Tell me a love story.”

He smiled, slightly, unsurprised. “Can you imagine,” he said, “sprinkling stars across the velvet night? A table of black felt, your hand full of diamonds, casting it forward with a flick of the wrist, like throwing dice across the table, the shining light of the sun above you?”

“Sure,” she replied, “Of course I can.”

He half-sat up, turning to her and seeing her eyes closed – were it that I could sprinkle stars upon those eyes.

Her lips pursed, and she kissed the air. He did the same. And though there was no sound, and her eyes remained closed, she smiled.

He sat up fully, his hands marvelling at the touch of so much dust. He rubbed his fingers against his palm, amazed that rain, it seems, does not clean, does not wash away – how does one explain this much dust in a wide-open space? Doesn’t the wind blow? It’s almost surreal.

And he tossed his dirty hand outward, throwing away dust like diamonds upon a velvet floor, but the dust wouldn’t go.

Her voice brought with it a trace of sadness, “We are all star-dust,” she stated.

He realised that he felt the sadness too, turning to look at her, finding her looking at him. “Stars are nothing but dust,” he said, “emotional debris from an uncaring universe.”

“Never to be requited, however bright you shine.”

“Love stories are not real, you know, no more real than porn can be.”

“You always said the point wasn’t whether or not they’re real.”

“I think,” he said, as she stood up and strolled towards the edge, “that tonight I want something real. Please come back here.” A shudder went through him as she neared the boundary – unlike him, she had no fear of heights – I’ve tripped before, you’ve tripped before; it happens. And what if you trip now?

She aligned her toes with the edge of the building, looking down seventy, eighty stories at the lights – so many lights – below. “Streetlights, like stars. Man-made stars, no more than dust.”

“Come back here,” he repeated, “You promised.”

She took a step backward, away from the drop, toward him, sat down, her legs hanging, hanging over nothing at all.

He stopped himself from calling her back again. He wanted to go to her – no, he wanted her to come back to him. He didn’t move. Looking at her, sitting there. Both of them, sitting there.

“Tell me a story,” she said, “about people who demand stories.”

“Come back here,” he said, “please.” He wondered if she could hear the fear in his voice, if it quivered.

She leaned back, breathtakingly slow, stretching her arms outward as if to embrace the lonely stars. She brought her arms together in a circle as her head tilted, as her body tilted; then she was facing him, her hands reaching out.

He stood up, at last. Keeping his eyes upon her face, away from the shimmering lights so far below, so far away. Finally her hands were in his, and he pulled her back, away from the edge, away from the drop that could have been.

“You just saved my life,” she whispered.

He wanted to ask her never to do that again, but he felt it sounded too much like an invitation. He lay down, closed his eyes, felt his heart beat in his chest, letting the panic slip away.

“Love stories can be real,” she said, as he felt her around him, on hands and knees above him, crawling to his face, “so can porn.”

Atop a building, in a big city, in the late of the night, amid a constellation of man-made stars, they looked at each other, face to face.

“Tell me a story,” she said.