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Moon Meeting

Yesterday morning, I met the moon in Walgreen’s.  She was looking for silver nail polish with glitter. 
“I lost my glasses,” she told me.

I helped her find a bottle called “Sheer Sparkle.”

She smelled like peppermint and lavender.  Her hair was long and white, bundled up in a messy bun.  She wore a baggy white t-shirt and wide leg jeans.

How did I know she was the moon?

She introduced herself, offering me her hand.  The nail polish on her fingernails was chipped.  Her nails were uneven and ragged.

“I am the moon,” she said.

I told her my name.

Her fingers felt cool and knobby, like an autumn branch.

“I’m in pretty good shape for 65,” she said, leaning forward to look in a mirror on the cosmetic counter.  She lifted the skin on her jawline and sighed.  “I’m beginning to sag a bit.”

Then she turned with a bright smile. “Would you have a buck or two for me?  I’m a little short today.  You know—waning.”

I paid for the nail polish.  She sailed up into the sky.