The hexagonal plate, the needle and the rosette. Shades of yellow varying from near colorless to a turbid brown. They might be beautiful if they weren’t so damn painful when they struck.
At the Mind Bar, they each took a chair with a Mind Specialist, overhead lights beating down on each of them at their individual station.
It can see us from above as we try to hide among brambles, hoping it will mistake our human shapes and movements for those of boar or deer or badgers.
Rosalie took one look at the tarot cards this morning and gazed up at me. “Molly,” she said, “I need to get away from you.” Then she bolted down Psychic Alley.
That gesture, that tightening of the hand, such a simple thing, simple but it reassures me.
Retirement day. Those words had resonated over my career, if you could even call it that . . .
The soil smells sweet—rich and earthy with a faint whiff of sulfur from a geyser somewhere in the vicinity.
The walls divide more than inside and out: they run a sharp line between needs and wants.