Star or Aeroplane?

When I was a kid, I used to play that game - you know, "star or aeroplane". The one where you look up at a spark in the sky, and you decide whether it's a star, or an aeroplane. No points for the moon! That would be way too easy!

Okay, okay, the game isn't really that hard to start with, once you're more than about five years old, because obviously the aeroplanes are the ones that are moving. It's even easier if you live in Central London, because the planes are a lot lower down, and because you can only see about three stars to start with. And one of those is technically a planet...

But, you know, I play the game anyway, just for kicks. Especially in the summer, if we get a heatwave, because that's when the clouds clear up enough to see the sky, and when it's warm enough to sit out on the balcony at night. (To be strictly accurate, that's when it's so warm that the balcony is the only place you want to sit at night, because the inside is pretty much a furnace. These flats are heat-efficient in winter; in summer, they're just heat.)

The thing about "star or aeroplane" is, it's a good thing to pretend you're occupied with, while your brain gets on with some actual thinking about stuff you were kind of avoiding.

For example, I really don't want to deal with the text I got five minutes ago. So, I'm not - I'm watching that spark over there, which is pretty clearly a plane, and trying to decide whether it's at the right angle to have just taken off from Heathrow. And if a background thread of my thoughts happens to be cycling through all the ways I could reply to the text, and all the catastrophic outcomes that could result, well, that's neither here nor there, is it?

I probably could have seen it coming. (The text, I mean, not the plane. I definitely saw the plane coming, that's the whole point.) See, I don't think I'm particularly renowned for my subtlety, and I know I was acting weird when I asked about the gig. I can remember the exact words I used, and they were awful. No, I'm not telling you what I said. It was just a bad way of phrasing it, okay?

That spark, incidentally? The one the Heathrow spark just slid past? Definitely a star. Except not, because that's the one that's a planet. It's Venus, and it's always the first non-aeroplane you get to see as the sun goes down. That's why they used to call it the Evening Star. Fun fact for you!

But, yeah, I already had this horrible feeling that I'd slipped up with my "just good friends hanging out like friends with plain old platonic friendship" act when I was asking her about the gig. But she just agreed, and we made plans, like nothing was up! So I thought I'd got away with it. Until... just now. Until the text. The text which is really messing up my planegazing game, if I'm honest.

Okay, maybe I have to give up on claiming I'm not thinking about the text. I pull my phone out of my pocket, and open up the messaging app, and worry at it, swiping the message up and down, and rereading the words I already know perfectly.

>Soo, the gig on Friday... did you mean that in, like, a date way?

Because of course she noticed.

The problem is... the current problem is... I have to reply to this. Somehow.

I think I've got my options down to two. Numero uno: laugh it off. Oh, did I sound like that? How silly of me! No, I didn't mean it. But imagine! Lol! This would save face. It would be safe. It would also be a Big Fat Lie. And, you know, I've been hiding this crush for ages now, which is kind of lying already, but there's a difference between not mentioning a thing and outright falsehood, isn't there?

Option number two, though, is... tell the truth. Say yes, I totally was thinking that gig would be a nice date, but then toned it down and tried to pitch it to you as a friend-date, because I'm terrified of telling you the truth. Pros: not lying, might turn out okay. Cons: ...kind of self-explanatory, right?

I wrote and deleted eight replies before I gave up and came out here to look at planes and stars.

Overhead, the drone of a low-flying jet rolls across the sky. I don't even have to look up to identify that one. Head bent, frowning at the phone, I slowly tap out a ninth reply.

I don't think you can wish on aeroplanes. I mean, obviously you can wish on aeroplanes, but I don't think anyone would ever claim it works. But I might as well try it, so I do, as I summon all my courage and hit Send.

>Maybe kinda sorta. Would you like it to be?

Now I've been looking at my phone too long, and my night vision is shot to pieces. Lesson learned there, kids: bright lights are not your "star or aeroplane" friends. I look back at the sky, trying to adjust my eyes back again, but I've barely lifted my head when my text tone goes again, and I clutch the phone to my chest. Like, shit, that was fast. I guess that means it's a good answer? Or a really bad one. I don't want to read it.

...except, I do want to read it, right. Hammering heart and chattering teeth aside, I really want to know what it says.

So, I take a deep breath, and I peel the phone away from my shirt, and I squeeze the power button to light up the screen, and I... read... the... notification...

...and I let out this totally involuntary screech, and clap my hand over my mouth to make it stop, and I hug the phone to me and I bounce on the spot like some kind of sugar-hyped toddler.

>Yeah, I really would like that.

Could there be a better reply? This reply is perfect, it's glittering, it's the star I was hoping for! It's so good, I have to read it five times over before I really believe I've read it right.

And as I'm standing there, swaying with delight, another spark soars across my peripheral vision, and I just think: hey, maybe wishing on aeroplanes does work.