Rooftop with a Telescope

Providencia at night wears perfume: buganvilia, hot concrete, and the far-off pepper of street tacos. On the rooftop, the telescope pointed like a dare. I was sketching constellations that don’t officially exist when she climbed the last steps—black dress, hair up, that look that says I edit the night, not the other way around.

“You stargaze or eavesdrop?” she teased, crossing to the railing.
“Both,” I said. “Depends who shines louder.”

She took the telescope, squinted toward the cratered silver. “I prefer the dark between things.” Then she turned the lens—not to the sky, but to me. “Hold still.” Click—no camera, only her smile, but I felt photographed anyway.

The city hummed below like a vinyl locked on a secret groove. A warm wind lifted the hem of her dress; she didn’t smooth it down. “Rules?” she asked.
“Two,” I said. “We keep the neighbors nameless, and we ask before we cross any lines.”
She nodded, eyes bright. “Add one: you owe me a line I’ll remember when I’m halfway down the stairs.”

We stood close enough for citrus and notebook ink to mix. She leaned into the eyepiece; I leaned into her. “What am I supposed to see?” she asked.
“Your favorite myth,” I said. “Everyone has one.”
She pretended to adjust the focus, then whispered, “The one where danger learns manners.” She looked at me, deliberate. “May I?”

“You may.” The kiss was heat with discipline—half astronomy, half electricity. Nothing sloppy; everything chosen. She took my wrist and placed my palm flat against the cool telescope tube, steadying us both like a metronome.

“Teach me your constellations,” she said against my mouth.
“They’re just dotted rumors.”
“Draw them anyway.”

I traced a shape on her shoulder with a fingertip—stars becoming letters, letters becoming a dare. She shivered, laughed, did the same on my collarbone. The sky cleared as if bribed; a plane cut a bright parenthesis through the dark.

When we came up for air, she set the rules to paper: a matchbox from her purse, the inside flap blank. She wrote:

If you want another kiss, name a star that doesn’t exist.

I wrote under it:

If you want another chapter, point me where the skyline breaks.

She tucked the matchbox into my shirt pocket like contraband. “Tomorrow, same roof,” she said, “but bring a blanket and a story you’re not supposed to tell.” At the stairs, she paused, backlit by the city—one hand on the rail, the other smoothing absolutely nothing. “Halfway down,” she said, “I’ll remember your line.”

“And I’ll keep your focus,” I answered.

The night held us for a beat, then let her go. I stayed with the telescope, renaming constellations so the sky would owe me favors, matchbox warm against my heart.