One summer night, the crescent moon fell in love with a black bowler hat and swore thereafter to follow it everywhere. But the hat did not succumb to the moon’s charms. After a stroll through Luxembourg Gardens and then along the Boulevard St. Michel, caressed by the breeze of passing cars, the hat felt exposed. I’ve been looked at all night long! it cried. Darling, replied the moon, who had long ago grown used to the pressure of eyes, at least come see the fifth floor apartment I’ve rented for us. The moon had wallpapered the apartment with sheet music. It had transformed a bowl of green apples into stone. It had paid its taxes and always carried an umbrella in case of rain. In this way, it had successfully courted a porcelain rooster and the box of sugared violets displayed in the baker’s window. In fact, the moon could still feel those objects clamoring for its attention. But then, the moon told itself, why should it have to choose? The hat, the modest little hat with the canary feather stuck in its tattered lining, irritating the forehead of the portly man who motored it everywhere, that hat was something else entirely.

Bio: Kathleen McGookey