Bowie turned to Iman.

“I wonder what it’s like to be a goddess like you.”

He traced the lines about her immaculate cheeks, ran his fingers through her soft fine hair.

She laughed as he did this, looking back into his discolored eyes, focusing on his worn English crowsfeet, and the laughlines that cupped his lips.

She kissed him tenderly.

“Goddess?” she asked, in her warm, dark voice.

“Yes, dear?” Bowie replied.

“I’m going to put some coffee on.”

Her legs cascaded from the sheets.

Bowie watched her silk nightgown nip against her ankles as she walked.

When she left, he starred up at the ceiling, running his right hand through his hair. He was contemplating painting a fresco of the night sky.

The white ceiling glowed back at him.

He wanted to paint in a few more stars than could be seen from earth, and name them after his friends. He loved the idea until he contemplated giving Iman a star –
a red dwarf, perhaps? She would not like that much, he thought. Likely, she would take it as a joke at first, but harp on it at the first sign of trouble.

Bowie stood, gazing about his room. It had salon style panels and full-length mirrors in these panels. He advanced toward a corner, and pulled these panels on hinges, and folded them so they enclosed him completely.

He gazed at his aged body, his tall, feminine legs. He looked in contemplation at his flat chest from which his aged skin now hung and thought “more a Starman than ever.” He smiled.

This is the body he has. (This was a repeated phrase like a mantra.)

He worried Iman did not enjoy this phrase with the same sense of security. She was not as forgiving to herself in this way.

Whatever drugs he had taken, whatever abuse he subjected his body; it forgave him. He’d grown to be thankful.

He was at peace with his eyes’ limitations.

From space, his body looked more or less the same as it had.

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