The missing bottle in the six pack.

The boy, although cursed, had a talent. Whether it was an evolutionary glitch or a by-product of his dance with the stars, he would never know. The boy could die by sheer force of will.

If it was quiet enough, and dark enough, the boy could call a sudden end to his existence.

First he would close his eyes and picture his heart in his mind. Breathing deep and slow, he would imagine his heart slowing down. Thump, thump. Thump. Thump. Thump...thump. Thump......thump. Th-

It was done.

What came next was nothing.

Blackness. Nonexistence. What dreams might come...who knows?

Then, the last star to cross him would pass to his hemisphere. The last curse, the strongest one, was from the star his planet circled. It was the curse of morning, of renewal, of rebirth.

The boy could never die for long. Eight or ten hours at the most. And if the window was open, and you could see the other stars, twinkling with laughter like those that know how the joke ends.

Just...one...more...quarter...

Was the boy sorry for what he did? No. But he was sorry for the way things turned out.

Infinity minus one.

There were always other girls.

There were lists and lists of girls that, over the years, would call on the boy. He was their favorite, the one they kept returning to over and over again. He slept with them all, if by slept one meant fitfully drifted in and out of consciousness next to their sleeping forms. Occasionally they would kiss him, to show they were willing...if only...but just...not right now...

All of these women, sometimes two or three at a time. How could he be alone? The stars, the stars, oh how he hated the stars.

"But, boy," they'd say. "You have so much. Why do you always ignore that?"

The boy would usually agree with them, to show willing...if only...but just...not right now...

At night, he would watch the sky, but the stars were cold and distant.