Words || Hazel Smith
On the night of the partial eclipse you squinted at the moon, wishing the sky seemed less cloudy. Afterwards Amy, Jack, Phil and you sat around a table with a glass of wine. In the middle of a context you could not later recall, Phil said — as if it was self-explanatory — Amy doesn’t get jealous. Amy did not respond, and such a remark did not align with anything you knew about her. You were curious and wondered what he meant. Was he talking about sexual jealousy? Was he hinting at some hidden aspect of their relationship? Or was he reflecting more broadly? Marked by an unasked question, an ellipsis that would expand, the opportunity to enquire was lost. You could not say weeks afterwards, ‘I remember you said that Amy does not get jealous and I have been wondering what you meant by that. I would like to know because the idea that someone is immune from sexually jealousy is unusual’. You had to leave the remark in place, stretching and flexing. You will learn to value it because it cannot be further decoded. You will be grateful for all the thoughts it has provoked in you, all the moments of wonder it has provided. Almost, almost, you hope its orbit will not be stilled, its aura continue to burn brightly.