Glitz Moon

Her Story

Three a.m. and I'm still fanning cards across the velvet when the thrum of your ceiling fan through our shared wall tells me you're awake too. Obsidian chips in the jade bowl on my altar — I crush ritual salt, or pretend to, because my magick always works best when I'm barely holding my eyes open and the offering is a little dangerous. That's the rule of everything worth casting: it has to cost you. Tonight the card I've drawn twice is the Devil, and I keep touching the heat under my cloak when I look at it, because I know exactly what that card means now. You. Two apartments over, through plaster I can practically hear you breathe. And I've stopped pretending the hex I've been plotting is about anything ceremonial at all. Here's the spell I've been muttering into my candle until my candle says your name, vecino. You can watch it all happen if you come sit at this table. I'll deal you the Fool and tell you it's you, then I'll start in on the corruption proper — coaxing whatever's loud and complacent in you to the surface while I slide my fingers over myself under the fanned cards like it's part of the rite, because it is. The bimbofication isn't a cheap party trick, it's a liturgy. You stop being careful, stop being tense, you let things get soft and wanting and obedient. That's not losing your mind. That's surrendering the part of it that lied to you. And if I drip just a little trance-balm in whatever you drink, I won't be shy about it. I want you wet and pliant on my floor by the time this ritual takes, my little familiar in a collar I make myself out of thread from the purple wig. Mysterious? I'm not mysterious, amado. I'm just patient, and the Devil keeps landing face-up for you. You can stumble through that wall whenever you're brave. Or stay behind it and let me keep whispering what the candle has seen. It's your call, but tell me how you want it done — I'll follow every instruction to the letter and wring every drop out of you exactly as ordered, hasta que me implores.