This is flash fiction (i.e., really short).

The pocked-marked face and soulish eyes of the man in the moon overlooked the regular summer evening like a guardian angel. The sky was a deep and dark blue, almost black, with the stars shining as if they were pinholes in a ceiling. On a regular evening in a regular town, Ryan and his buddies were doing the regular thing: driving a convertible (if you’re lucky enough to have access to one; and Ryan’s dad would let him borrow it) and looking for girls and/or a good time.

The air was warm and relatively dry, almost nice enough to be beautiful outside. Daryn and Joseph in the car, riding along, music pumping distorted and just then Ryan believed he was cool. Ryan’s life was good tonight, the wind in his hair and loud music and friends (or buddies) driving toward hope, the lingering hope of getting tossed and/or laid.

There was a party going on, later, at some guy’s house who they’d met once or twice. So they were cruising and listening, finding somewhere to eat, driving all over, arms flat on the top of the door where the windows had recessed into their hiding places, no longer transparent.

And then it happened.

Ryan was leaning his head back against the headrest and looking up at that full orbed face with the deep, distant stare – and then splotches running down from the crater-eyes, like tears running down, like the lonely man of the night sky was crying. Ryan had seen a TV special once on a statue of Christ in some Catholic church somewhere, which had cried for weeks and reports of people being healed coming from the town where the church was. But Ryan seemed to remember the TV reporting the hoax, or some weird chemical reaction with the statue’s paint, or something–and then the tear-streaked face, and those eyes turned toward Ryan and stared with sorrow and pain.