Red

I'm just so in love with the cosmonaut. I see him through my telescope. I stare at him all night long.

He's out on a spacewalk tonight, my cosmonaut—my cosmonaut. He's stretching his communist legs after many hours of isolation in a cramped capsule. He spreads his arms out like a child.

I'm just so in love with the cosmonaut, and every time I see him, I want to pull on his air hose, pull on his tether, and drag him down to Earth to sit with me on the bed. And we will talk.

(And yes. I am aware of the Freudian implications of my desire to pull on his air hose. There is no need to mention it to me. I can see, too, you know. I can see and think.)

The cosmonaut is high above the Earth, in a cramped, Soviet capsule. He is in orbit for the glory of his people. The sun hits him, and it reflects back to me. He is a tiny star. I'm so very much in love with him that I don't know what to do.

Maybe this:

Maybe I'll be an American astronaut. Maybe I'll train and become a patriotic space rocket jockey. Maybe I'll allow the government of the United States of America (the Greatest Country in the World!) to launch my infatuated ass into space.

And then I can casually bump into the cosmonaut.

He wears a helmet and a visor, like they all do, but I will recognize him. I will know my cosmonaut. I will bump into him, say out on a spacewalk of my own. We will make small talk. He will know some English, I some Russian.

I will flirt with the cosmonaut. I will pique the interest of the cosmonaut.

I will win the heart of the cosmonaut.

And then maybe—just maybe—I'll tell you all about it.