"He watched as she stalked a wide, slow circle that took her all the way around the car. She was wearing something short and black. Magic again? Without taking his eyes off her, he took off his St. Christopher and hung it from the rearview. Gripping the steering wheel, he leaned forward, mesmerized.
She stopped a few paces in front of the car. Her hands reached for the stars, then she crouched low and brushed the wet grass with her fingertips. No candles, no incense. Then she spoke into the darkness like it was listening.
Hear me sisters, Fire, Wind, Water and Earth, in all your names and guises.
Light the watchtowers for us. Hold back the night.
I ask cover from all quarters.
Bless us this circle and we within."
He’d covered the cracked plastic upholstery with a plaid flannel blanket. Like a bird on a wire, she perched on the edge of the seat. He reached under the dash, a motor whirred, and the patched convertible top lifted slowly, folding back on itself.
“You got it fixed!” The sky was clear, full of stars, and cooler, less humid air washed over them. They were in some kind of clearing; the grass manicured. “Where are we?”
“A golf course.” Jack looked around, pleased with his choice. “Listen. When I called before, I just wanted to make sure you were okay. To talk, you know?”
He was about to light a joint, but she took it from him and tucked it into the ashtray, then put her fingertips on his lips. She couldn’t say ‘fuck’ and wouldn’t say ‘make love’. He sucked her fingers into his mouth, then they stripped each other out of their clothes. The confines of the front seat of the Skylark was nothing to two people hell-bent on taking up the same space.
"Prophets Tango" by Deborah Lacativa 2021
