The Moon

You find a book titled, Confessions of a Lunatic. You flip through the pages and notice an elaborate lunar calendar, but decide to just read the description on the back.

"This book is about a lunatic — or so everyone said. The kind of man whose neighbors whispered about him behind closed curtains, wondering what could possibly keep him locked inside every weekend while the rest of the world carried on with its ordinary affairs. He wasn't hiding from the world, he was just too shy to face the Moon.

He was obsessed with the full Moon. Not in the casual way people admire a sunset or point at the night sky after a glass of wine. His fascination bordered on obsession. He could recite every phase, every cycle, every peculiarity of lunar motion with unnerving precision. He was a single man, but not exactly by choice. It's just that any date who dared mistake a waxing gibbous with a full moon, or who thought it was okay to just describe Moon with some trite superlative was commiting an unforgivable sin. Romantic prospects rarely survived the interrogation.

While others arranged candlelit dinners and weekend getaways, he planned his life around the night sky. It would be a sad night when the sky was obscured, or if the conditions to see a full moon were odd.

And for all his fixation, all his rituals, all the years spent studying and waiting, there was really only one night he cared about. One night when he would drop everything, ignore everyone, and answer the Moon's call.

Only one night when he would truly see the Moon."