“I have a lipstick for that,” she whispers to me in the dark.

I turn my head slightly and look at her profile. She’s looking straight ahead, at the stars.

“For what,” I softly respond.

“Beginnings.”

I turn my gaze upwards, staring at the dark velvet sky. I consider the many beginnings I’ve endured and enjoyed in the last year. I sigh, once, twice, inhaling the sweet scent of the midnight air mingled with the slight touch of her perfume. The ground beneath me is cold, the grass rough.

Beside me she breathes quietly but deeply and I hold my breath for a beat, then let it out, to catch up to her.

I raise my body and turn to face her, my left elbow digging into the ground. She turns her head slightly to look at me, a question in her eyes.

“Do you have one for endings,” I ask, staring at her lips, waiting for a response.

She closes her eyes. I wait. Her eyes open and she meets my gaze. My breath catches.

“No,” she replies.

The air in my lungs escapes through my thinly parted lips in a slight hiss.

I lay down, the ground colder now.

“You should,” I tell her. “Endings are sometimes, often, more important than beginnings.”

She raises her body and turns toward me, a mirror image.

She meets my gaze and I see the question forming in her eyes.

“Do you want this to end?” she asks, staring at my lips.

I close my eyes, breathe in slowly and deeply, her perfume now overpowering the sweet scent of the midnight air.

I open my eyes and hold her gaze. “No,” I say. “No.”

Her right hand reaches for my left, our fingers intertwine and she lays down. “Good,” she says.

We sigh.