sirius

After some champagne with our sourdough and brie and reading a few chapters full of enjoyable correspondences like brast allt í sundr (broke all asunder) and gyrðr sverði (girt with a sword) and in which we are ever confusing Þórir hundr (the hound) with Þórir selr (the seal), I cadge a ride home with a good friend, the one with the boyfriend who is also, somehow, the reincarnation of a dearly beloved dog. We step outside and---even with eyes accustomed to the bright indoor lights---we are dazzled by the stars.

We ooh and aah. The winter constellations stars sparkle coldly at us. It is as if the night drips champagne into our eyes through a slender glass. My friend points upward and asks if that is Orion's belt. I say it is. "And you know what that bright, blue one is, right?" I ask in return, pointing a little lower and to the left. "That's him," she says, and says the name of the dog. "Yup," I say, and we get into the car.