Bella

She said the night was lovely. Bella, bella, she said, leaning deep into the word, cupping it like water, licking it from tiny, transparent reservoirs.

You aren’t sure if it’s rhetorical, merely commentative, or invitational. Come, she says, pulling you by the hand from the kitchen and out onto the terrace in front. Not rhetorical, apparently.

The door to the terrace is already open. (The door is always open.) Fresh air at the expense of a warm home, you've often mused. On cloudy days the breeze whistles through the hallways of the fourth-floor apartment like an arctic Passover.

Look, she says, sweeping her arm across the night sky like its proud artisan. See?

You step across the threshold onto the terrace and look up into the familiar, blinking star canopy. Eyes illumined, you blink, brightly, back at them.

Exhaling, you repeat your host mom’s favorite phrase. Bella, bella, you say, trying to lean into the word like water, like she does.

You point to Orion’s belt only question your observation. But we’re in the southern hemisphere, you point out.

No, no, no, they assure you. Your host father has joined too. We’re on the equator, they say.

Ahh. You pause. So you see everything.

Your host mom tries to point out Venus, twice, but your host father repudiates each time. You and your host mom look at each other and laugh.

Your host sister, Ana Maria, and her boyfriend also join you on the terrace. Practially the whole family, you think. In the city’s cool dusk, Ana María hugs the should of her boyfriend from behind, pressing her chin and mouth into his sweater. You half-smile, enjoying watching them together.

On the street four stories below, Emilia, your younger host sister, waits in the car with her boyfriend. Your host mom notices the two sitting in the running vehicle and waves, gesturing—smiling—to you to do the same. So you do. Then your host father, then Ana María and her boyfriend catch on. Finally, spontaneously, Ana María plucks up the dog, Thea, from the tiled floor of the terrace and she waves too. You look around at the others, all smiling foolishly. 

Emilia, below, waves back, twisting her neck and body in uncomfortable ways to peer out of the car’s windshield and up at the six of you on the terrace (including dog). She has big teeth and a slightly crooked smile. Her teeth glint through the windshield of the car like ground stars, bottom dwellers.

You look away, up again into bottomless well of the sky, and don’t see any difference.