She lay asleep down the hall. He looked at the moon with binoculars. A half moon. Rarely did he catch it full, in all it’s glory. It was always a half or a quarter. He’d check the calendar and then sleep right through. Maybe the whole moon did that to him. Maybe it was just bad luck.
He went to bed early every night. Way before she did. Then woke up a lot of times ’round midnight. The old man would place earplugs in his large ears and listen to Coltrane, Miles, Chet Baker, whatever mood had hit him. Then, he’d just stare at the moon. Bill Evans would play Gloria’s Step, and he would adjust his lenses. Looking at it. High in a dark sky. Wanting so desperately to go. To leave and have the moon follow him. A silver shimmer chase him. To be caught by it’s majestic light.
And one night, he did. He knew the wife would sleep. She never rolled over. The old man took a long look at the moon that night. Got in his old pickup. And drove down the highway with a full moon following him. Cigarettes were tossed out the window. The burnt butts of an orange glow skipped along the road. Miles played Kind Of Blue. And for the first time in a long time, he smiled.
The old man parked the truck down by the river. He looked at the ball shining down on water. He took a picture in his mind. Wanted to remember this night. The night he was chased by a full moon. And captured by it’s magic.