[pancakes]

The morning already felt like evening creeping in, gentle and gray. Rain pattered onto the stark white windowsill, spilling off into a long puddle across black and white checkered tile. A crack of thunder rattled the open glass and vibrated the metal screen. Sheer lace curtains swirled in lazy circles. A wind chime of stars and moons tinkled faintly.

On a low round table, an arc of periwinkle votives burned. They dripped widening pools of wax onto the lacquered surface, drying to lock in the memory of their movement. Long pale fingers set down cards with a snap, crossing the second over the first, and surrounding those with four placed like the points of a compass. Four more lined up vertically on the right, bottom to top, and the deck rested.

War sat in the corner, sinking further into the lush red armchair. His cigarette smoldered, wisps of smoke flying from him, vanishing. He exhaled, watching it blow from his body. The air was heavy today, and it settled in his chest, robbing him of the ease of breath he normally gleaned. At the moment, he found it difficult to care. His stomach was full of Ashley’s specialty: chocolate chip pancakes. It was the only thing she knew how to make, and it brought back all those memories of waking up to the scent of batter, butter, and chocolate. She learned the recipe because of him, and the loud growl of his stomach on those long, lazy mornings.

He curled his arms over his bare chest and savored the satiated, light feeling in his jeans. From here he had a good view, able to watch her lips move in silent reading, fingertips grazing the smooth surface of each card. She bent her long body over that table as if she would dive in. Her blonde curls fell, tousled and messy about her shoulders and into the open ‘V’ of his white rumpled dress shirt.

Soft seventies rock played like a low hum from a cheap stereo on the floor behind him; a song about love and miracles. He removed his cigarette and licked his lips. No, not quite. About wanting. That was it. He flicked his ash into a crystal votive-holder and brought it back up to his mouth to suck the last life from it. The pad of his thumb caught on the crosshatch grooves of the ring on his index finger, twisting it round and round.

Storms are good for love, she told him once. It purified the energy in the room, the air, and their bodies. With lightning came intensity, bright white and burning fire, hot to the touch. Through the Pall Mall, he could barely distinguish the difference between its smoke and the incense smell of her still on his skin. He knew it was there, along with the invisible prints of her palms and fingers over his muscles; the pale peach marks of her lips on his cheek and neck.

Hung over her old mantle, its fireplace in disrepair, was a portrait of a girl with wild curly hair and big innocent eyes. She had a hint of a smile on her perfect lips, and deep shadows at her collar. As he stared, he realized it was a drawing, painstakingly crafted with every detail the artist could see in a photograph of a fortuneteller on a sunny, summer day. Scrawled in beautiful, precise loops was a tiny signature, floating in space at the right corner of the paper. He’d seen the picture so many times, and never paid it any attention. It was Ashley in the colors of ash.

“Love,” she said, lilting and quiet. Her long fingernail tapped the first card she laid down.

He returned his attention to her, and smiled slightly.

“You ‘n me, kid?” he asked.

She wet her lips.

“Reverse position,” she said, turning clinical, “Avoiding your feelings and using sex to manipulate others.”

He mashed his cigarette out. Lightning arced the sky. She moved onto the next card, over the first.

“Nine of Staves reversed. Work is overwhelming. You need a break.”

Water traveled through the grout spacing of the tile, spreading farther and farther from the open window.

“Queen of Staves reversed. You’re waiting too long to do what you need to.”

“Ash, don’t,” he said. There was no way in hell that laminated paper could tell him what would happen today, or tomorrow, or the day before he died. They didn’t hold answers to the universe, like she seemed to think. Just like candlesticks and apple peels couldn’t spell out the initials of the one you’ll love, or swinging a pendant over a map couldn’t find what you’re looking for. It didn’t work. They were ancient traditions that science killed decades ago.

“Temptation,” she said, a hint of reverence in the word. “You don’t need me to read this one, do you?”

His jaw tightened and he scowled.

“It will keep coming up, Red, until you face it,” she told him.

“I have,” he rumbled.

If it’d been someone other than Ashley, it would’ve gone farther than that. She would’ve acted on the argument that brewed there, instead of letting it go and going to the next card.

“Five of Cups. Disappointment with intimate relationships.”

“Seriously. Stop.”

“This is important. Please, Warren, listen to what the Goddess is trying to tell you.”

“Goddess,” he sniffed.

She chose to ignore that.

“Prince of Swords reversed. You’ll be waiting for information, but all you’ll get is confusing messages.”

He shook his head as he rubbed his face roughly.

“Six of Staves reversed. A desire for recognition and victory, but it’s evading you.”

Barefoot, he dug himself out of the chair and sloshed through the water to find his sweater.

“Justice,” she announced, piquing her voice, as she stared at the girl with red gold hair and gray eyes on the card, “You need to see the situation from the outside to get a better understanding.”

It lay in a rumpled, pastel pile at the base of a tall, overcrowded shelf. All surfaces were taken up by crystals and books, sprigs of dried herbs and half-burnt sticks of incense with their tips charred black.

“Tradition. Pursuing relationships for the sake of security.”

Forcefully, his fingers dug into the knit.

“The Star reversed. Not following your bliss.”

He didn’t even know he’d crossed the room until he stood in front of her, leaning over the table to get her attention. She’d read the last card, the possible outcome, should he continue on the path he’s on. She looked away from his future.

“Why can’t’chu fuckin’ let it go?” he growled, “This ain’t real!” With a quick swipe, he scattered the cards, most covering the table top in a mosaic of watercolor, but a few drifting to the floor.

The bow of her lips settled, and she reached out calmly, lifting one card: Justice. She held it up to him, forcing him to see the girl walking through the Parthenon with an owl on her shoulder. She wore gold armor, held an iron spear proudly.

“Who is this?” she asked, significantly.

“Ash,” he repeated, and calmed a little, “I need my shirt.”

With a sigh, she set the card down and worked on the tiny pearl buttons. The seconds that passed in quiet settled him enough to wait for his shirt, put it on without missing a button, and tug his sweater on over that. Summer felt dead already. He missed the Indian summer of home, sitting outside in late September with nothing but a beaten-up pair of cheap jeans on.

“This can’t happen again,” she said, slipping her arms over her naked breasts.

At that moment he could’ve gotten fired up again, shooting down all the mystical bullshit she put so much stake in. He could attack it, tear it down, and destroy it once and for all. It brought down the one good thing he had when he was younger. It forced him to cover the inside of his left arm, where sometimes he thought he could still see her name in cursive through all the new ink. It left him with all that longing and pain, giving him a purple rock and a goodbye for consolation. Except the part of him that cared so deeply wasn’t there anymore.

“Ever,” he agreed.

She smiled, and leaned up on tiptoe to tenderly lay a kiss on his cheek, and wipe a little of her stale lipstick away with her thumb. He didn’t return her smile, but merely accepted her affection, and left, disarmed.