Twelve Years of Telling the Stars, and No One Had Asked Which One I Wanted to See

Twelve Years Under the Dome

Some background: Qin Wangshu, forty-two, a presenter at a planetarium in Houston, twelve years in the job. On nights with shows I present three of them, forty minutes each, laser pointer in my right hand, eyes following the little dot, neck tilted up all evening. When I reach Orion, I always save the three stars of the belt for last. The lights go down, there they are in a neat row, and even the rowdiest kid goes quiet for a few seconds. I have said those lines thousands of times. Near the end my voice would go hoarse and I could not even hear it myself, until Chen, the security guard, told me: your third show today — your endings were cracking.

Closing time looks different. The audience files out, the seats flip up row by row, the dome lights come slowly back, and the stars are gone. I stand at the edge of the stage coiling up the laser pointer while a parent carrying a child asks if there is a meteor-shower special next month. There is, I say, and the tickets go fast. They nod and leave. Nobody asks whether I have seen it myself. It is a little funny, honestly. I have spent twelve years pointing out stars for this whole city, and when I tried to remember the last time I simply looked at the sky in peace, I could not.

The Screening Form, Filled In Slowly

The idea came from an elderly volunteer at the planetarium. She is past seventy and helps out every week. On her way out she said: people like you, who keep others company under the sky all night, deserve someone keeping you company lying down for a while. I went home and read the page from top to bottom, and I filled in the screening form slowly. It asked careful questions: whether my neck ached often, whether I minded total darkness, whether I wanted conversation. The last field was blank, and after some thought I wrote one line: please do not talk to me about stars. After I sent it I felt unsure. Places like this choose their guests; handing in a form is no guarantee, or so I had heard.

The call came three days later. The woman on the phone spoke softly. First she read my line back to me and said it was noted. Then she said the Tuesday evening I had asked for could be held for me. It felt strange. I have drawn up show schedules at the planetarium for twelve years; for the first time, someone treated my time, too, like a show worth scheduling properly. Screened, and then chosen — so that is what it feels like. Not exciting. Quiet. So quiet that I circled that Tuesday on my calendar twice.

After the Lights Went Down

The room was much smaller than the dome, and its lights went down slowly, the way dusk settles. First came the scent, cedar with a little citrus peel, not sweet. A Cen laid a warm towel across the back of my neck, the steam settling exactly where twelve years of looking up had left me tightest, and asked first: I am going to touch your shoulders — may I? I said yes. His palm came down neither light nor heavy, right onto the right shoulder that aches from holding the pointer every day. He even remembered the throwaway line from my form, that my left side feels the cold; the towel stayed a little longer on the left.

Then the lights went down one more level. The palm moved slowly down my back, my breathing slowed with it, and the line I have said under the dome a thousand times floated up on its own: the stars are never in a hurry. That night I finally understood it. His hand paused between my shoulder blades, and he asked, low: Wangshu, which star do you most want to see yourself? My eyes stung at once. In twelve years, no one had asked me that. What happened after that, I am leaving to that night. I only remember that before the lights came back up, in my heart I took the middle star of Orion's belt and kept it, carefully, for myself.

After the Show, I Looked Up First

When it ended, A Cen poured me warm water and told me to sit a while, no rush to check my phone. Cup in both hands, the first thing I did was look up — occupational habit, searching for the dome. There was no dome, of course, only a ceiling, but I looked anyway, my neck loose, my heart loose. Out in the parking lot I did not get straight into the car. I stood beside it and looked at the real sky. Houston was cloudy that night and there were hardly any stars, but I stood there five minutes anyway, until a mosquito bit me. It itched, which felt reassuringly real.

Next week is the planetarium's twentieth-anniversary night. I will present my three shows as always, and save Orion for last as always. Only now, before I begin, I will run through my own star in my mind first. If you want to settle yourself before a day that matters to you, the screening takes a few days and the hour needs holding in advance — keep your time early on the booking page; how the lights fall, whether anyone speaks, all of it is yours. I am forty-two, and I have told the stars for twelve years. From this month on, I keep one night a month to ask myself first which one I want to see.