Tear. [The Kind That Rips.] Oh.

one cited, “side adventure!”

Welp, as sure as any explosively runny shitstorm can sabotage the integrity of brand spanking new underoos, this day’s outcome could not have been planned. Funny what wandering spontaneously into a locally owned hidden treasure located away from the normal flow of pedestrian [tourist] traffic at 11:59 can do to a previously plotted path and/or an envisioned course of action.

Wait, where are we again?

I’m glad you/I/we asked.

Indeed, we are “somewhere.” Caloric intake represents a fundamental need; therefore, we gotta feed, especially her. Catch my meaning? We stopped to eat because I know that her body hungers independent of her brain’s awareness.

In my highly particular case, and assuming energy reserves are full, I can go at least 48 hours before feeling any adverse effects.

Also, when are we? (Timestamps can be {usefully} misleading.)

Let’s just say that it’s been about a week since we hit the road. That’ll do.

Anyway, now we’re here at a food service establishment [it’ll remain nameless and, for this, reasons do exist] wouldn’t be considered a “bar” despite the fact that (technically) we occupy space at one such piece of exemplary furniture—it’s way too well-lit to earn the aforementioned quotation-mark-enclosed classification; not to mention the full menu of round-the-clock “elevated” breakfast foodstuffs—though they do offer a small assortment of boozy beverages, including a tremendously delightful take on Irish coffee in which the element of salt is added to a heavily whipped, homemade sweet cream, and the result is kind of otherworldly. I know I shouldn’t indulge—it’s definitely gonna hurt my head later—but when things get weird, decisions get made. So I slurp at will; pacing be damned. In all likelihood, I’ll have 6-8 servings before we depart (unless they cut me off); with any luck, it’ll provide me with a minor buzz. Plus, this joint, which, in retrospect, I liken to an upscale Waffle House, has become jam-packed in the last quarter-hour since we claimed our stools. I don’t know for sure what’s happening, but there’s a growing wait to be seated. I suspect a nearby {death metal or EDM [possibly both]} show recently let out.

And here we are—she and I; me and her—situated at the corner of the right L at the bar-style seating area, behind which mostly coffee is brewed via boujee methodology, plus a few beer taps are housed. Bleary-eyed and marginally disillusioned, we’ve yet to order food, and I’m attempting to unpack a lesson in Galacian politics/economics, but TNT’s attention span wanes while wearing thin. When we sat, she was hungry. Following close examination of the menu, she’s not. Goddamn. Girls are weird.

Being a total loner sure was simpler than this. Good thing I’m over that noise.

Thierry’s in a mood. Somber. Scared. Shaken. I can feel it, and I don’t really know how to feel {about it}. [Or maybe I do.] Via successful extrapolation, you should know that her energy is palpable. Her scattered thoughts drift elsewhere. At the moment, I’m worried about her emotional well-being more so than the fate of humanity despite the imminent threat of abrupt extinction. Eventually, I take enough notice of her effective distraction to pinpoint the root thereof. Quickly, it adds up.

Immediately adjacent to our temporary station, a group of three young women of approximately age 30 {give or take 4 years} are involved in an evolving conversation of erratically shifting topical versatility. They’re not eating either; they’re pounding coffee of this shop(pe)’s signature Irish sort, but they do not act drunk. One of them augments their glass mugs with whatever’s in the flask being passed around conspicuously. No strangers to spirits in this crew. I realize that they have more of my “date’s” attention than I do. Looks like they’re playing a card game. Wait. No. Those are tarot cards. But they’re not doing readings. They are discussing approaches to session direction and nuanced interpretation. Their meeting is academic, and the dynamic interaction nabs my attention—in that respect, now Thierry and I are once again on the same wavelength. We’re people-watching. Eavesdropping, even. Hmm, it seems we’ve happened upon a “coven,” for lack of a better word.

One barstool separates us, and it’s occupied by an apparent phone-zombie who, ever since I noticed his presence, has been engrossed in his new fancy device’s vibrant AMOLED screen. For all I know, he is a synthetic organism. Or a spy. Or the owner. Or a Mormon. Or my time-traveling Daddy. No, that can’t be real. But occasionally he snickers in ironic solitude at whatever he’s ingesting so deliberately. Also doing a lot of typing tapping. Whatever. Sometimes buffer zones serve a priceless purpose. We’ll see what happens, won’t we.

Let’s make this mental picture simpler with a shoddy sketch {that’ll clarify the scene later} in my favorite old notebook:

So, yeah, codenames have been assigned because, at times, anonymity warrants protection. Keep in mind that we’ve yet to interact with these strangers; regardless, assessments of who they are shall burst forth in due time. None of these women could be confused as overweight. They range from little to petite, and they’re all “hawt.” Hell, let’s go ahead and meet the strangers in question. Now’s as good a time as any, right? From farthest to nearest (from me/us):

Collidascope
The most independent, introverted, and (physically) smallest of the three. Suspicious of anyone and most assuredly has many a good reason to be that way. I could only guess wildly; therefore, I’ll refrain. Also, coincidentally or not, she’s the one with whom I’ve I’ll shared the most eye contact (throughout the night’s remainder). Great poker face. Fond of purple. I suspect that if her fuse were to be lit, she’d become a bright, noisy, passionate firecracker, thus a sight worth beholding and, situationally, from which fleeing might be wise. Color me intrigued by her essence because though she may be quiet (verbally speaking) in this setting, spiritually she screams in silence. She’s a fun-house magnet, attracting what she wants, repelling what she needs. Can’t help but wonder what would happen if she attracted what she needed and repelled what she didn’t want. I’d 1v1 her (in a friendly battle of wits {among other potential avenues of “competition”}). Naturally, I’d slay, but that’s neither here nor there.

Innavae
Relatively speaking, she is the most talkative [mind you, none of them could be appropriately labeled as a “blabbermouth”; not by any stretch of the most hamstrung imagination in existence], the one propelling the dialogue forward, the delightful glue in their budding tri-headed relationship. Her words are well-spoken after undergoing careful thought. She also seems to be the newest addition to the group, the energetic being fleshing out a fresh, very gratifying, ever-changing {in a good way}, dynamic interplay, unbound by the frayed rope of traditional convention. And a transplant from a relatively faraway place, she must be, I’ve just gleaned. Washington, maybe? Oregon? Shit, for at least half a second, I entertained the possibility that she carried a sliver of g/b DNA. Good nature. Wonderfully nerdy. Tech savvy. Declares many “favorites”—a quirky tendency I find endearing. Adept at suppressing a horse’s knee-jerk urge to kick her melon into a condition of mental retardation. Emits signs of resembling a densely layered vidalia. Attracts interpersonal exploration because what most may see at a cursory glance is surely not what’s received in the long run.

Mamie Deek
Eldest of the trio, I think, but barely. “Boss Witch,” if you will and, quite frankly, even if you won’t. The others, particularly the newbie, seem to look to her for assurance, guidance, affirmation, and confirmation. Selflessly motivated, this one prefers to exist/operate in/from the lands of shadow. One look into her eyes and you might conclude she’s lived a thousand lives. She doesn’t venture into the urban wild in search of disciples, but she welcomes them when they seek her out. Benevolence emanates from her presence. Wherever she carries her body, amplified motherly instincts permeate her surroundings. Also broadcasts an aura that advertises her strict lack of tolerance for bullshit. Fool her once; that’ll be all you get. She’s not a T that commands crossing; quite rather, she’s an I that demands dotting. Whether negative or positive, if it’s energetic, by goddamn golly, she’ll harness and redirect it responsibly with cosmic balance in mind. In this regard, she’s like Thanos, only her (humane) approach is a bit more palatable, probably.

At last, MD deduces that TNT’s overtly obvious gravitational pull toward their late-night powwow has become evident enough to address her directly. All she says with her voice is “Hey,” and her tone is warm, soft, and inviting. What she communicates with her eyes, I may never know unless Thierry tells me one day. [I shan’t ask.]

“Sorry,” Thierry explains. “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop.”

Collidascope chimes in with the deadpan delivery of an astute observation: “You couldn’t help it.”

“Guess not.” Thierry’s eyes shy away.

Mamie Deek reels her back in by introducing herself properly, after which Innavae pipes up with her own friendly introduction. MD continues by introducing the third among them, after which Colli grants a smiley but guarded nod. You may never know their real names.

Eyes now alight with subdued excitement, Thierry glances at me for clearance to respond accordingly (as if such were a requisite). I attempt to give her a look which plainly states, “Go for it, girl. At this point, why not? Also, stop forgetting that you’re free to do whatever you feel is right.” That’s quite a lot to try conveying with a look, particularly for me, but she likes what(ever) she deciphers in my uncoordinated effort, then she proceeds: “I’m Thierry. This is Atlas.”

“How do you spell your name?” wonders Innavae sans hesitation.

Thierry spells her name. It’s not what they expected. Appreciating the mild surprise, they each make/take mental note.

TNT glances back to me for approval. I simply grin because that’s all I can do. In muted response, she beams. I feel like a proud father, which perplexes me deeply because I don’t wanna be her dad; I want (some of) my unborn kids to call her “Mom,” even though I realize and accept the unlikelihood of such fruition. Genetic recombination can be finicky, you see. Have I mentioned that before? If not, here, I’ll mention it again. Genetic recombination can be finicky.

Further pleasantries are exchanged. Basic stuff. This plus that. Boring on the surface but loaded with complex subtext. As I hang back and watch them click (into place), a sense of relief slowly washes over me.

See, when I paint pictures, I like to utilize the whole canvas; so, now, let’s expand on the unknown, tertiary flankers. Skip ahead {to the next big letter [N]} if you care not(hing) about characters you’ll (likely) never meet again; see if I give a shit, you lazy bum. Self-imposed peripheral blindness is one way to go about seeing things, I guess.

First and foremost, there’s Phoneboi, whose physical body separates Thierry from Mamie Deek. Let’s get him outta the way since he’s by far the least solvable (at the moment). For all I know, he’s not only mute (and possibly even deaf), but also he reveals no signs of awareness that any other living beings are around. Just a boi and his personal screen. Tunnel vision, exemplified.

Salty Angry Black Stalker. Okay, so, not sure if I’ve mentioned this yet, but I can hear whispers than humans can barely even detect. As such, I’ve learned a lot about ABS. Canadian. About 45, I’d say, maybe more or less. Sick and tired of cold weather. Patience depleting faster by the minute. Two months until work visa’s expiration. Desperate to marry an American—namely the young [23ish] Cute Barista soloing bar service until reinforcements arrive [she called for help once the unexpected rush materialized]. Though fairly well-spoken, ABS’s words advertise a certain propensity {if not an undying desire} to cling. I’m halfway contemplating revealing (in secret) that soon countries won’t matter because I think if the fervent inclination to migrate were removed, this human would be likable, and far less angry.

Another point of note. CB alleges to carry an incurable STD [I didn’t catch which], but ABS is undeterred. Doesn’t care. Wants it. “Give it to me. We can be in this together.” The tactical sentiment does not seem to be working as intended, which exacerbates the frustration becoming increasingly difficult to quell.

Cute Barista, a bona fide honky, home-schooled since grade five and sheltered to her developmental detriment, sheepishly touts her plan for relocation to Minneapolis ASAP. Though I’m not sure why, I’ve no doubt that she is riddled with reasons. She needs to run wild. This, I know. Likely, she doesn’t.

While we’re focused on this relationship destined to take flight sometime never, let us momentarily derail to address the term “African-American.” Since ABS is not (yet) American, should we be compelled to say, “African-Canadian”? Come on, people. Let’s move past this. What a waste of syllables. If white people are white, then black people must be black. Let it be. It’s not complicated, and it doesn’t have to be a sensitive issue anymore. Terms are just labels. We infuse the attached emotion, thereby charging the connotation. Words can never mean what they once meant. Allow language to improve because it’s gonna gotta do it anyway or face obsolescence. Release yourself from the stifling constraints of antiquated teachings, especially when, deep down, you know better. I did say, “Please.” Probably. Maybe. At some point. Elsewhere. I think. Trust me.

Hmm, perhaps this bespeaks a memory from the future.

Give me one good reason why anyone should resist any form of positive evolution. Go ahead; I’ll not wait.

To my left, a first date accelerates in its spiraling ride downhill. To be fair, it never stood a chance because one of them is vegan for moral reasons while the other has ordered a plate of food that would make Ron Swanson proudly blush. Yeah, this coupling never stood a chance. Their dialogue is a passive-aggressive back-and-forth which has rapidly lost most of my attention. Other tidbits I’ve picked up about this incompatible pair: The Vegan is a pharmacist, and The Meat-Eater suffers from erectile dysfunction. Food for thought, I’m reckoning. A recipe, too.

Then there’s Bertha. She looks about 72. Big fan of makeup if its unnervingly ample application (all over her leathery face) serves as any indication. Shit is caked in gobs, hiding in crevices that might require a specialized tool to facilitate total removal. Too, the old gal’s a semi recent widow. A regular here, for sure. All staff members know (of) her. She comes for the Double IPA this place keeps on tap and, plus, for the prospect of meeting a new beau to replace her dead, deadbeat, fourth husband. That’s hearsay, of course; I never met the man, but I have an inexplicable feeling that the accusation is fair enough. However, per her goal to strike matchmaking gold, the next oldest person on site [besides me, obviously, but I don’t count {again, obviously} due to a genetic technicality] looks no more than 50. [Remember, barring bodily expiration, next year I’ll reach the century mark.] Thus, either Bertha frequents the wrong watering hole—that is to say (analogously), that she doesn’t fish in the right pond—or she’s trying to be a cougar, and based on the general clientele, at least among the late-night crowd, most of whom have popped squats at the tables lining the interior perimeter {not pictured in the previously revealed hand-drawn map of this establishment}, she’s looking for a flabby, forlorn, flannel-wearing hipster who reeks of faux pine and boasts a methodically groomed, thoroughly oiled beard.

Let it be known that I am rooting for Bertha with all the sincerity I can muster. She’s lived a long time through patches of great hardship and still has the energy to put herself out there. Life keeps trying to beat her down, yet she comes back for more. Way I figure, she’s earned whatever she wants (within reason). If she can snag a young man, by god, good for her. Human spirit, for the win.

That’s probably enough for you to visualize our place inside this location. If it’s not enough, then I know not what to say aside from: “Oof.”

Now that we’re past setting our stage, we can travel somewhere worth the gas needed to get there. As they [the 4 womanly girls] chat, I remain silent but attentive, my focus razor-sharp. It’s early yet.

TNT + 3 shoot the shit for a bit. I remain wholly attentive while pretending to be engrossed in my own cellular device as well as fully distracted by the endless supply of tastily spiked coffee. The full details of their dialogue aren’t mine to divulge. Thierry is a factory of questions, as usual. Presently, I suspect she’s just searching for a distraction from the pressing plight into which she’s stumbled. Under the circumstances, who could blame her? [My hand is not raised and I can only hope yours isn’t, either.] Perhaps later she’ll elaborate elsewhere. Perhaps she won’t! In this case, either way, we’ll be okay.

Anyway, after about 30 minutes, Mamie addresses Phoneboi directly [OMG PLOT TWIST ALERT] about the sitter looking after their respective small children (in tandem “back home”); the details are as irrelevant as they are unnecessary to unpack. Point is, uh huh, he’s with them. Can’t believe I missed this connection, but I’m glad I did. I’ve not yet fully shed my rusty cobwebs. Better try harder. Must improve. I need to amp up my general awareness. Is he a sorcerer/warlock? A chauffeur/designated driver? I’m bombarded with inquisitive curiosity that I’m reluctant to vocalize. We’ll call the new addition Mandy.

Aren’t equations a riotous hoot?

Mandy
You know, like Mr. Patinkin? Anyway, apparently dude is skilled at staying hidden in plain sight. Is he a spy? I’m not sure whether to entertain the paranoia itching to scratch my noggin from the inside out. He smells human. Hmm. More on this turtle later. He comes out of his shell sober stupor once we reconvene at another, more private location. A little foreshadowing there for ya; don’t mind if I do.

Additional Observations

Do you know why the numbering above counts down? Hitherto, me neither/too!

Yes, indeed, TNT and “The Coven” hit it off big time, and now here we are back at their Airbnb. Turns out, we’re not the only out-of-towners passing through to see big and easy sights. At this point, hell with it, sure, I’ll spell out our approximate location since tomorrow (or the next day) we’ll all be long gone. [I won’t post this until we’re free and clear.] Here’s where we are: New Orleans. [Hear that, Severus? Don’t bother hunting us because we’re on our way back. I dare you to meet us where we’re going, you fat fuck-stick.]

Thierry and I are headed east along the coast, but our new pals aim to travel somewhere else in another direction. Somehow, though, I feel like our paths will cross again, if only because we’ll make it happen once shit goes hugely sideways. By this fatefully impromptu soiree’s end, Thierry will have secured contact info from each of the 3 if not all 4. Yes, truly, I think we’ll meet again and that they’ll play a pivotal role in…something important. Get off my back; I’m not psychic. They all seem to be very excited and energized by the “12/12 12:12” full moon event. Wouldn’t be surprised if their respective menstrual cycles have by now all aligned in perfect harmony. They’ll probably crank up a text thread that quickly sprouts in myriad unexpected directions. I hope that does happen, and I do have my reasons for this.

Don’t we all?

Upon the looming morrow’s late afternoon, for the time being, we must part ways {geographically speaking}. There’s this certain deadly threat, as you may (not) recall, that should be met head-on before Old Man Winter’s crippling grip takes hold with uncomfortable firmness, even all the way down here by the sea, thereby buffing the physical prowess of our heat-averse foes.

As of now, we’ve withheld any hint of the upwardly swelling g/b conundrum from them. Wasn’t my call. I deferred to her judgment; she could’ve spilled the beans but opted against it. “Wise choice,” I’ll assure her later. “The time wasn’t right.” Still, should they find it (soon) on the internet, so be it. But I carefully monitor the traffic/analytics that come through this site. Ain’t nobody readin’ this shit (yet).

“How you do you know Sevy and Co. will locate your position in spacetime?” you (may {not}) ask.

Because I’m putting this out there specifically for them to find.

And find it they shall.

In a way, you’re just an innocent bystander. Down the road, you might become an activate participant. Hope you’re okay with a meteoric ascension toward essential evolution. Otherwise, sorry!

Just so we’re clear, I’m actually not sorry.

Chances are, by the time you read this sentence, our transitional location will have been triangulated by belanockian higher-ups. Fingers crossed.

Hey, y’all!

And this’ll confuse ’em. Matter of fact, this block alone might sentence Vilfred to an irritating series of mini aneurysms; it’ll probably just make Sev’s tummy growl and his blood boil. In other words, it will yield the exact results that I intend to be produced. Again, I have my reasons. You can’t know them all. Not yet, and maybe not ever.

But they’ll come, all right, and so, too, shall reinforcements. Quite soon, we will encounter my shit-stain of an uncle again, and the stakes will have been raised significantly. Doubt he’ll wanna chat, but it would be cool to have a quick sit-down before fighting brutally until either of us can draw the breath of life no longer. Indeed a fatal duel doth brew. In fact, it is the skirmish that will incite the war to end all wars.

“Ain’t that some shit?”

Pressure sucks.

Don’t worry. G/B aren’t emotionally rangy enough to use this information to their advantage. On the contrary, it’ll do the thing opposite helping. Bait dangles because I know they’ll take it. Knowing they’ll take it affords “the good guys” an advantage. Whether we can capitalize on their lack of emotional depth remains to be seen. My mental fingers are hyper-crossed.

And here you are, loyal reader, at Ground Zero Negative One [or Two]. Bizarre, eh?

Who saw this coming?

Anyhow, now, having quickly assessed our cosmically assigned company back at the high-end diner—and as mentioned previously, which, I guess, makes this a reminder—we find ourselves at our new friends’ temporary place of lodging. These girls [plus their designated guy] aren’t merely harmless; they are truly kind souls, quite genuinely people who care about others.

Thierry needs this. I’m more than happy to let her have it.

Evidently, TNT has harbored a lifelong interest in tarot cards and all things associated, yet she never mentioned it to anyone. Ever. “How silly,” I’ll tell her in person via vocally inflected mechanical waves, though doubtfully in those exact words. What a uniquely strange interest to keep under wraps from everyone.

Until this eve. Big moon energy amasses an irresistibly strong pull. The night is bright.

The Three are teaching her how to administer readings. She’s gearing up to use me as her willing guinea pig under their supervision and guidance. This’ll most assuredly be a rip-roaring hoot, though I’ll hide my reaction(s) so well that Colli will wish her impressive poker face could hang with mine and possibly hate me for it.

In the meantime, I’m chatting with Mandy on the property’s cramped porch while he chain-vapes. Though initially I did not like this dude, now I do, despite his nasty habit’s continuous emanation of a smoky aroma with which my nasal passages do not agree. I don’t auto-judge people based on any self-destructive habits they’ve formed over time. Life can be a vindictive bitch and sometimes we must seek escape along treacherous avenues. It’s just that to me, tobacco smells bad; but, off that point, marijuana emits a scent I can tolerate, though the taste took diligently orchestrated acquisition.

Whatever you choose to smoke, I advise against the direct application of fire to a dried plant. Fire’s too hot. Fire burns.

Anyway, since Mandy’s phone died earlier and presently charges far from the convenient grasp of his person(al limbs), he has become someone complete with original thoughts, feelings, ideas, et cetera. A human! And a uniquely well-rounded one, at that. Very talkative, all of a sudden. He hands me a short book on physics penned by an Italian fellow—a work which, of course I had read long ago {and more than once}, but I sincerely appreciate his choice to retain reachable possession even while vacationing. From here I change the subject and we discuss the evolution of cinema while the ladies emotionally/mentally quad-scissor indoors.

A good night, this one. A very nice, very, very welcome surprise.

Take a lesson here, reader: there’s always more to anyone than meets the eye. Book covers are just that: covers. Just as shells shield their inhabitants, covers protect the pages housed within. Boundaries must be established so that full access can be earned. Inside any outermost layer of fortification, assuming you’re able to find a way through, you’ll locate resources in abundance and, with any luck, gain valuable substance.

Side note: this is partly why I think humans should be consuming bivalves [scallops, mussels, oysters, clams] as their primary source of (animal) protein.

Let’s move on. You know you wanna.

The exactly measured hour has been reduced to a state of irrelevance, but for the purposes of context, it’s 03:42 and Thierry’s ready to administrate the reading of whichever cards I’m about to draw. Here we go. I pull a trio from Innavae’s well-kept deck [not at random; from left to right, I choose numbers 8, 24, and 38] which contains 72 options. While giving precisely zero fucks, simultaneously Thierry skips no beats. Her quick take on my draw:

“A major chapter in your life barrels toward a climactic conclusion. You personify embody light despite to spite the coming darkness. Open yourself up to the prospect of experiencing the truest of loves. Abandon self-doubt. Share without permission. Know you’re right (because you are {duh}, always, you magnificent bastard). Fear not the emotional unknown and be brave in the face of physical challenge. Forge ahead. Tap into your cerebral prowess to plot a course toward ultimate victory. Trudge onward no matter which obstacles lie in your path. There’s always a workaround. You’re too fucking brilliant [you shit-bird] not to become the victor in a battle which may now seem virtually impossible to surmount. Be afraid, and rightly so, but most importantly, feel your way toward miraculous triumph. What does fear invite if not courage or cowardice? It’s one or the other. Be smart: select the former. Nothing is impossible if the laws of physics permit its possibility. Go with your gut. Trust your heart(beat). You have all the reason in the world to follow your instincts since they’ve never let you down. Believe in yourself, dummy! That, you can do. That, you must do. Otherwise, we are all lost and will soon be forgotten as an odd, sad hiccup in the cosmic timeline, a fleeting burp in the entropic nature of existence. Rise, stand tall, speak up, tell your truth, project your will, and illuminate the way for others, for if your fire dies, humanity’s flickering flame of hope extinguishes along with your body’s tragic demise. For all our sake(s), please don’t perish. Instead, be what you are. Become yourself. Use your wings. Be magic in motion. PS: no pressure!”

Fuck.

What a sneaky-shrewd maiden of neo-classic beauty, inside even more so than out, which is saying a lot. I guess I do “love” her. Do I? I must. She hit me with a real-life kissy-face after delivering her peer-fueled, ingeniously interpretative, rookie reading. Not sure how much of it was show{wo}manship. She’s also hammered. Doesn’t matter; she slashed me to fucking atoms, and the blows landed softly while hitting hard. I’ve got some thinking to do. If you ask me, that’s always nice—knowing you need to think about something after exposure to unanticipated summation. What a solid way to incentivize airy continuance and propel fluid progression.

Also, post reading, I think TNT could have assumed full control of The Coven Free Trees if she desired. [Hey, as the author, I get to take liberties, okay?] They found themselves visibly flabbergasted by their initiate’s intuition. It’s funny: as Thierry spontaneously unveiled her off-the-cuff interpretation, the only one to get teary-eyed was Mandy; the other 3 were just in absolute awe of her prodigal aptitude. (This is the part where Colli finally dropped her guard.)

After that, they talked and bonded until the sun had emerged in full force. Not gonna lie—I fell asleep twice along the way. Very unlike me. In any group setting, I’m almost always last to succumb to the unavoidably persistent call of slumber.

Oh. Crap. I just now noticed the sudden change in narrative tense. Apparently, in the company of witches, even retrospectively, I can’t hold a candle. Get humbled, self.

Upon the unfolding prospect of departure from their welcome company (around 08:33), there was a lot of hugging [not by me; I declined all opportunities to embrace because I don’t know how to do it without sweating profusely] as we parted ways. I shook all hands awkwardly. But the girls all clinched hard, closely, and at length. Colli was the least huggy, but she pecked us each on both cheeks. Not that any of that means anything, but maybe it does. I’m just the impartial observer noting whatever sticks out.

After a nap (in the same bed with no touching), we met up again that afternoon (only six hours later) on our respective ways out of town, spent a solid four hours [150 minutes more than planned] roaming Bourbon Street, continuing (in variable degrees of agreeable delirium) the soulful cultivation of the friendly kinship now irrevocably in bloom and destined to flower majestically.

I/she/we never told The Four about the brewing storm, but we know where they’ll be upon (and after) its inevitable onset, and one day, sooner than later, we will reunite. I know this because they’ve earned spots on a short list of humans I’ll go out of my way to gather once the dark day comes when nothing known prior makes sense anymore.

Interrupting here to input twists that may reframe previously assembled mental constructs, to provide heretofore missing details, to invite deeper reexamination. Just before Vegan and Meat-Eater left, they kind of calmly rage-agreed to a one-night stand just so they’d have something to show for their co-defined failure of a meetup [something tells me a little blue pill was part of that arrangement]. Also, ABS is not male. And Bertha is a multimillionaire with no designated heirs.

Not to imply that any of it matters, but certainly not to suggest that none of it does. Because any of it might.

In other words, everything matters.

Much happened during our shared time in space with The Free Trees (Plus One). Most of the details feel like they should remain private, at least for now. However, I’d be slightly remiss not to provide a list of vague highlights:

• A feather fell in front of a foot.
• Geodes were examined closely.
• Turmeric and sage were identified as beneficial spices.
• A fresh litter of kittens was heard but never discovered.
• A balcony door was opened more than once to regulate body temps.
• Someone fainted then laughed about it upon regaining consciousness.
• I was the only one who didn’t ditch footwear; i.e. pigs flew.
• Politics were consensually banned as a topic of discussion.
• Vinyl records were played, some of which were heard.
• Two Star Wars movies were half-watched.
• Patterns were observed.
• Minds were blown.
• Bonds formed.
• Ties bound.

Is there a moral here? Maybe not. At the same time, hell yeah, maybe so. And maybe it’s this: in your disorienting journey through life’s coasting, rickety roll toward certain (physical) death, never turn up your nose at an opportunity to make friends. You might need them one day. Moreover, they might need you. And of most critical importance, eventually, you just might need one another.

Great beyond, here come we (all).

Nah, not later.

Yep, sooner.

As always, now’s the time.