“So just what are you trying to say here? Read your daily horoscope?”

Saanvi nodded appreciatively. “Fundamental belief systems continue to guide social norms, political perspectives, our relationships with others. Religious beliefs, community standards and ethics, generational biases, gender dynamics. These are divisive issues. So I selected a traditional system that bridges cultures and skirts contemporary religious and political thought streams. Astrology.”

“Horoscopes.”

“In a 2020 survey of more than 173,000 Chinese ages 18 to 60, major personality traits were shown to have no reliable correlation to stereotypes associated with individual zodiac signs, such as heightened ambition in Aries, loyalty and passion in Leos, perfectionism in Virgos.”

The man smirked. Saanvi continued.

“At the same time, these stereotypes pose some undesirable social effects. The sign Virgo carries negative connotations for many Chinese, who see persons born under that sign as fussy or critical. Many respondents indicated they would refuse to date or even hire Virgos.”

The smirk vanished. “So what?”

Saanvi grinned happily. “The pandemic spurred a resurgence of interest in astrology. Isolated young people sought guidance in navigating challenging situations. My students have referred me to a number of astrology podcasts, and some even use dating apps like Co-Star that match astrologically inclined individuals. Did you know the global astrology industry was valued at $12.8 billion in 2021, and may reach $22 billion by 2030?

“Scientists are concerned about a generation leaning on astrology to make major life decisions influenced by commercial interests. You see ‘woke’ philosophy as indoctrinating individuals into a liberal hive mindset, correct? My interest is to encourage students to look within themselves for answers and scrutinize beliefs and institutions that propose predestined identity, behaviors, and destinies.”

“Dr. Deshpande?”

Again, Saanvi was forced to look up, this time at Assistant Prof. Ethan Cooper behind her shoulder. She smiled with amusement as Cooper and the stranger exchanged wary nods.

“Yeah, the president just got here,” the sculptor/metalsmith murmured.

“Gonna wait outside, I think,” the burly man rumbled, moving off. “Thanks for the conversation, Doc.”

“My,” the department chief breathed. “Doctor Deshpande. Did you hope my honorary or your indomitable presence would frighten him away?”

Ethan shrugged. “Sorry, Saanvi. After the vandalisms last week, I just wanted to, uh…”

“Assert alpha dominance? As if the president would deign to grace us with his presence during NCAA finals. Our guest neither raised his voice nor attempted to shout down my arguments. He didn’t come here for trouble. He was here for a specific purpose. Or person.”

“Please do go on.”

“The obvious assumption would be that our guest was a parent, venturing into the academic lion’s den to admire, tolerate, or more likely investigate his child’s creativity. Only one of the 12 pieces seemed to attract his full, considered attention. I tested him and sparked a reaction. Exasperation – affectionate exasperation.

“So our guest appeared to share a relationship with one of our artists. Parental, perhaps. But, if so, a detached or disaffected relationship. He asked if others enrolled their offspring in the University for this type of woke abstract nonsense, not if this was how his hard-earned wages were being expended. He may be a father, but an estranged one.”

“Long-lost daddy come to reconnect?” Ethan theorized. “Or maybe reclaim?”

“Why risk a public confrontation here in the gallery when he could simply wait outside?”

Prof. Deshpande did not normally subscribe to cues. But the uniformed man in the gallery entrance caught her eye, and she raised a finger as she crossed the floor.

“You Dr. Dez–, Desh–?” the young campus cop demanded.

“Deshpande, yes. May I help you?”

“We got one of your guys, one of your students, and he asked for you. A Hayden Barr?”

“I’m familiar with him. A sophomore. Has he been injured? Has he committed some kind of infraction?”

“Yeah, the second one. And, well, more than an infraction. We got a dead guy.”

**

He lay at the foot of the concrete bench beside The Abattoir of Ideas, at Wrightson Hall’s south entrance. The quad was relatively deserted, and red and blue University/Millington PD flashers illuminated Ethan Cooper’s tarnished metal installation, defining the tools of butchery, destruction, and warfare the assistant professor had welded about a VW-sized “brain.”

Even in the intermittent darkness, Saanvi could discern the seeping slit in the art critic’s black tee. She paused to study the spray-painted graffito on the bench above him, then sought out her sophomore, sitting dejectedly in the back seat of a Millington cruiser.

“Steve and I rolled up when we saw the dude on the ground,” a sturdy female University officer reported, one leg blocking Hayden’s flight. “Guy here was about 30 feet away, and he fled when we called out. I gave pursuit and brought him down in front of the Communications building.”

“And you didn’t lose sight of him at any time during the, ah, ‘pursuit’?” a fortysomething city detective asked. “Couldn’t have thrown anything away, stashed a weapon?”

“Nothing on him.” She glared at Hayden.

“And you didn’t see anybody else nearby?”

The officer backed a step, her baton nearly concussing Hayden Barr. “Nobody.”

“Detective Mead?” Saanvi asked gently.

The Millington cop looked down at his friend of an ostensible friend. “Professor. How you been?”

“Up to this point, very well. Should Mr. Barr contact an attorney?”

“Don’t know yet. We can’t seem to find a weapon.”

“I’m sorry, but weaponry is art,” Saanvi said. “The man’s wound seems wider and broader than what one might expect from an ordinary piece of cutlery or hunting knife. And I would be interested in knowing if the blade’s exit path might exhibit tearing.”

“You would. OK. Why?”

“That symbol someone spray-painted near the victim. Specifically, the symbol for the zodiac sign Sagittarius. The Archer.”

**

“It’s very…” Det. Mead struggled as he surveyed the 12 paintings, sculptures, lithographs, and miscellaneous objets about the now-deserted gallery.

“Yes,” Saanvi replied. “Each of my Ancient Norms in Contemporary Culture students was charged with creating a work conveying the superstitions, stereotypes, and/or influence of astrology in modern society. Sagittarius here takes aim at modern male toxicity.”

“And the artist?” Mead asked, staring up at the steroidally brawny behemoth in a red cap and loincloth leveling a camo-finished crossbow.

“Donita Carver. Who has been in Chicago for the last three days following the death of her grandmother. Moving on, Pisces is a water sign often used to connote healing, and the artist, Meta Gahrab, chose to address climate change and the oceans.”

Saanvi led Mead to the largest piece, anchoring the central wall.

“Fuck,” the detective stated. “Is that…?”

“It most assuredly is,” Prof. Deshpande sang. “Virgo. Chrystle – Chrystle McMasters, the artist, has a talent for using negative space.”

“And positive,” Mead argued, averting toward the descriptive placard next to the silk-screened, anatomically detailed canvas. “The little dudes with the bio-suits and ladders?”

“The patriarchy, working to preserve pristine womanhood,” Saanvi related.

“Mm. So how’s this connect to dead redneck downstairs?”

“I spotted the gentleman almost as soon as he entered the gallery. This was the first piece he approached.”

“Well…”

“He displayed no shock or prurient interest. He called the exhibit woke, a waste of college tuition. But he didn’t comment on what the general public likely would view as the most offensive piece in the gallery. So I pushed his buttons a bit. I referred to a Chinese study of discrimination against those born under the sign Virgo. He reacted as if familiar with the perceived traits of the Virgo.

“Now, are you aware of the recent series of break-ins and vandalisms across campus? The campus police have investigated, but I’m unaware if the Millington Police have been involved.”

Mead shrugged. “You guys told us you wanted to keep this inside the University. Minor damage, broken locks, some graffiti, maybe fake gang symbols, nothing major stolen.”

“Our department was one of the five targeted. It’s difficult to divine a common political or personal grievance against the medical imaging lab, the Center For Advanced Energy Utilization, the School of Environmental Sciences, the astrophysics department, and the School of Arts. Then I identified the symbols left at the scenes. Astrological symbols, specifically those for the signs Taurus, Aquarius, Scorpio, Leo, and Capricorn.”

“Maybe some kind of anti-science thing?” Mead pondered. “Some twisted rightwing protest? I take it the energy and environmental sciences folks do a lot of eco research, that sort of thing?”

“Well, the Nazis commissioned Swiss astrologer Karl Ernst Krafft to advise high-ranking German officials, and of course, we know Nancy Reagan came to depend on a White House astrologer to help guide the president’s activities and movements.”

“Soooo, what, the Campus Young Republicans are behind this?”

“I would doubt that. But my class discussion of the break-ins did reveal that a number of students – including three or four of mine – are involved in an astrology group, a club, of sorts…”

“Oh, good,” Mead responded. “A mystical stargazing cabal.”

“Not certain how they chartered it,” Saanvi said. “Would you care to speak to one of the founders? She’s also our Virgo.”

**

“Yeah, I said I don’t know,” Chrystle McMasters told the iPhone through her teeth. “No, I would rather you didn’t – you’re such an Aries, such a control freak. I said, I will see you at home. You got that leftover cake, and we can binge and do Squid Game.”

The artist tossed her phone in an open canvas bag and yelped as she spotted her faculty mentor and a very obvious cop waiting in the open gallery doorway.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Chrystle,” Prof. Deshpande murmured.

“Just my helicopter girlfriend. Sometimes, the matriarchy can be as oppressive as the patriarchy. And who’s this?”

“Detective Mead with the Millington Police. He’s investigating the murder that took place outside. Did you know someone painted the symbol for Sagittarius next to the body?”

“Jesus, this about the group?” McMasters breathed. “Dudes, we’re not a fucking cult or a terrorist cell or anything. We meet at the Coffee Commune, do our charts and talk about relationships and financial shit and stuff. I don’t know who these other assholes are, especially if they killed some guy. Was he a student?”

Mead pulled his iPhone from his windbreaker, and pulled up a photo. “Maybe you seen the guy? I’m going to show you the victim now. If you’re up to it.”

“If I’m up to it. Gimme.” The rangy brunette grabbed the phone, and her eyes locked on the image. The phone dropped to the eco-friendly bamboo floor.

“You OK?” Mead asked, retrieving his phone.

“Fuck no,” McMasters rasped. “That’s my fucking dad.”

**

“Well, biologically speaking,” Chrystle clarified after chugging the water Prof. Deshpande had supplied. “They put him in Joliet for shooting that minimart clerk in Bolingbrook 15 years ago. He came up for parole last fall, and started calling and texting. Said he was getting out in January, and when I made the mistake of telling him about the exhibit tonight, he said he wanted to come. I didn’t think he’d actually show.”

“You didn’t see him in the gallery?” Mead asked. McMasters slumped back, eyes red but dry.

“Yes, I fucking saw him, so I hid back here in the office. Then Professor Deshpande and Ethan got rid of him. I thought.”

“And you didn’t go anywhere after your dad left?”

Chrystle repeated her favorite catchphrase. “Ethan, Prof. Cooper, was working on some grant forms over there. We talked shit the whole time, ‘til you guys shut the exhibit down.” She drained the rest of the bottle. “I didn’t think Dad’d have the balls.”

**

Ethan Cooper had retreated to his second floor office, where he appeared to be completing the aforementioned grant application.

“Yeah, Chrystle was with me the whole time. She didn’t say anything about that guy, though. Kinda figures – growing up in Nebraska, I met a lot of tough guy hardcases like that.”

“Let’s change gears for a moment,” Mead said. “When the art department got vandalized a few months back, was anything valuable stolen or destroyed?”

The craftsman pushed back from his keyboard. “I wouldn’t say valuable. Hayden couldn’t finish his current project because they apparently walked off with what ferrofluid we had left.”

“Ferrofluid?” Mead asked.

“Hayden’s been working in ferrofluid – it’s like this magnetic liquid you can use to create static or even moving sculptures. Hayden’s become almost like a Jedi with the stuff.”

“So this is like a chemical compound. What else they use it for?”

The artist turned to his laptop and, after a few minutes, dropped back. Saanvi skirted the detective and peered over Cooper’s broad shoulder. Then she looked to Mead. “Oh, cursed academic myopia. Ferrofluids are used in recycling to remove metals from refuse and in bioresearch to separate particular cells from cell clusters. They can be applied in drug targeting and theoretically in developing thruster mechanisms for small satellites. As well as medical imaging and possible harvesting of ‘vibration energy’ from the environment. I think that might well constitute an ‘Eureka.’”

Mead frowned. “Still doesn’t tell us where our missing weapon might be.”

Prof. Deshpande smiled. “Actually, the victim was virtually surrounded by weapons. Come along, please.”

**

“Nope,” Assistant Professor Cooper sighed after an exhaustive inswpection. “Everything seems to be in order, and, what’s more, intact. Unless the killer brought welding gear.”

“What’s that on your sleeve?” Mead asked. “No, left one. Looks like blood. See you can find where that came from.”

Cooper focused his Maglite over the fused composite of knives, augers, mines, bayonets, and butcher’s tools reminiscent of the Nebraska sculptor’s adolescence. The spotlight halted over a congealing red-black streak bisecting a SWAT shield.

“Ah,” Saanvi turned toward the campus cruiser. “Oh, by the way, a belated Happy Birthday!”

“Thanks!” the killer sang, before gripping the passenger door frame.

“Ah,” Mead echoed. “Leftover cake for a March birthday girl. An Aries, I presume? You mind I take a look at your unit, Officer What…?”

“Officer Quennell, Dana Quennell.” the compact policewoman stated crisply, relaxing her grip with a tight smile. “No, not at all, Officer…?

“Detective. If you and your partner can just stand off, over there. And yeah, you, Barr? Get on out of there.”

“The bizarre but minor nature of the recent Zodiac break-ins didn’t rise to a city investigation,” Prof. Deshpande began. “But I imagine you were quick to volunteer to search the premises, Officer Quennell. It was simple enough to remove small quantities of ferrofluids and ID them as stolen. Chrystle must have told you weeks ago her father planned to visit, and being the ‘helicopter’ girlfriend she describes, you were worried he might pose a material threat, rekindle a toxic relationship?”

Det. Mead foraged in the trunk of his own unit, tugging an MPD poncho free.

“Did Chrystle tell you she would ask her father to meet her outside the Arts Center, or did you suggest it? Ethan’s stunning installation. A perfect forest in which to hide a leaf.”

“Chesterton,” Ethan mused. “The Father Brown guy. Antisemitic bastard, too.”

“My. You staged the campus break-ins to accumulate enough ferrofluids to magnetize your disappearing ‘arrow.’ Then, you affixed it to Ethan’s piece. You contrived a reason to come by the center, and watched for McMasters. You pulled your improvised weapon from the sculpture, impaled Chrystle’s father, sprayed the zodiac symbol on the bench to implicate the campus ‘vandals,’ re-concealed the arrow, and called your associate to the scene.”

“Yo, Steve,” Mead called. “While we were inside, she search that, uh, installation thing?”

“She was hoping we’d find the weapon, score some points. I kept an eye on Barr.”

“And what’d your partner do after searching the thingie?”

“She checked out her unit. Dana thought the front driver’s tire looked low.”

Quennell started to move forward. “Whooaaa, girlfriend. See, you thought the dumbass cop would search inside the car and then wish you a contrite fare-thee-well.” He spread the poncho on the damp asphalt behind the open driver’s door, and knelt next to the radial with a grunt. In a second, he displayed a bloodied, sawed-off metal “arrow” – seemingly a sharpened ornamental fence topper.

“It would appear you got something stuck on your undercarriage,” Mead observed.

**

“It was his own ‘sign,’” Saanvi extinguished the gallery lights. “He bore his own poorly rendered constellation.”

“Prison tat,” Det. Mead nodded. “The four outside dots are the prison, the center the prisoner. Good eye, Doc.”

“Tattoos are art,” Prof. Deshpande noted. “What marks us; how we mark ourselves. Ultimately, we seek tribal connection, or we adapt to survive within the tribe. Whatever that may entail.”

For those who aren’t practicing Outlanders, you probably don’t keep up with our sacred texts. This message fundamentally means, the person who spots you out in a crowd today is going to be a major player in the rest of your life. 

As the ancient texts prophesied, Those who are to enter one’s life during the season of your opposite star sign are those who may be called upon by the moon. When the sign comes, and yes, it will come– the players will come into contact now and forever until their souls dance together in the heavens. 

Thing is, I checked my calendar and I know that the combination of retrograde and Aquarius, the opposite season of my star sign, make this a very bad time for me. My eyes grow wide there on the sidewalk. I am careful not to look anyone in the eye and my vision is cast downward. I look to the shoes of the people around me and think to myself that any one of these people could be a potential lover or… the alternative. 

We were told when we were young about great stories in which heroes and villains are constantly at war with one another for the sake of destiny. It wasn’t stories of Good and Evil but rather of star signs and their rivals. Like ancient gods, and that’s exactly what they are to us Outlanders, the stars pick champions and rivals. During the time of your star sign, luck is on your side. I have lived my whole life with that knowledge, as has everyone else. 

One can only hope that when the moon chooses them, it will be when the moon would be in prograde and their star-sign would bask brilliantly down upon them: when you are at your strongest and best. 

But this was all wrong. All wrong indeed. I shuffled through the crowded streets of Bortland and took note of every pair of shoes that passed me. A pair of sports shoes with clean, white leather; a pair of boat shoes with a hole in the left front; skate shoes pair with sparkling moons and stars; some sneakers with rust-colored dirt from a base-bat field. 

Please no one look, please no one look. 

I made it this way to work, five minutes late. I rushed into the back room and finally lifted my eyes from the floor. My coworkers were safe because we had all already met. If there was a chance that sparks would fly today it wouldn’t be with Travis from the bakery section. 

Here, at Tomorrow’s Nobles, I have the sneaking suspicion that everyone is still waiting for their sign from the Moon. I don’t know the demographic of all of us employees but I can say for sure that we’re majorly Outlanders. I wear my sign of the crossed suns over my chest. Make no mistake, that’s covered up this time of year. I don’t want to risk the extra back luck I have by tempting fate with skin cancer from the sun or some lurker’s hungry eyes on my train ride home. 

Either way, my emblem is tucked away beneath my apron as I position myself behind the register at the front of the store. Travis from the bakery gives a dull wave from across the foyer. I wave meekly back, still reminding myself not to draw too much attention. 

That’s when Cassandra sneaks up behind me. 

“Heya, Grace,” she says to me. I practically jump out of my skin as a little squeak escapes my lips.

I whirl around toward her.

She laughs, “Whoa, what’s up with you?”

“Hi! Nothing! Shush!” I sputter. Cassandra and I aren’t exactly best buds but I’d like to think that we might be one day. She has one of those cool wolf-cuts all the cool girls wear and I just look like a plain-Jane.

I glance around for customers and see that we’re virtually alone on this side of the store. I pull her in conspiratorially by the elbow. “It fucking happened.”

“What fucking happened?” 

“The moon, dude. The Moon happened.”

She raises an eyebrow and it’s now that I realized I’ve never asked her if she’s an Outlander too. “Oh god, sorry. I forgot to tell you. I’m an Outlander and something really significant happened.”

“Well,” she scoffed, “It can’t be that significant. I read tomorrow’s news and there’s nothing out of the ordinary, although I was sad to see that Brooklands is closing down due to crappy sales–” 

“No, no, I meant to me.”

“Meant as in ‘it already happened’?”

“Huh?” I ask.

She blinks, “What?”

I scrunch my eyes closed, “Damn, sorry, let me start over. I opened a fortune cookie and–” 

“Dude! Seriously? While the moon is in retrograde??”

“Listen, I know, I know, I–”

“And weren’t you born in, like, August? Dude that’s extra bad luck–”

“I KNOW!” I whisper-shout. 

Just then someone clears their throat. We both jump as there’s a man standing there, hot as the fires of Venus, a black leather and canvas jacket tightly wrapped around a muscular, toned frame. His dark eyes make traces over myself and Cassandra. 

“Excuse me,” he says in the smokiest, deepest voice I’ve ever heard from a guy. 

“Yes, hi!” says Cassandra like a schoolgirl. She glances between me and him. I feel my face melting off already. 

“I needed some help and that, uh, ‘help desk–’” he actually makes the motions with his fingers “–was empty.” 

“Oh!” says Cassandra, coming down a little from the shock of this striking man’s appearance from nowhere. “Yeah, what can I help you with?” I admire her ability to roll with the punches like that. 

“Well, I was hoping if either of you could show me to the summoning section?”

“Cultural Mythos or Practicing?” asks Cassandra.

“You guys don’t have them together?” he snaps back. I’m starting to not like his tone.

“Well, one would be in our history section while the other is in spells and incantations,” I say, backing up my friend.

“Right,” he says. “Okay, well can one of you show me the way?” 

“Sure! I–” Cassandra glances at me and back to him. “Actually, I need to be up here at the cash registers, maybe my friend here can help you!” I can tell she’s trying to be helpful, but I don’t want to spend more time with this guy. Something about his attitude doesn’t sit right with me, like he’s hiding something. 

“Yeah, okay, it’ll be this way,” I say, rounding the register counter. I turn my head back to Cassandra and stick my tongue out at her. She just winks back. 

This guy’s walk is about as cocky as his words. He walks as if leaning backward, swaying his arms in stride. 

“So, how do you like your job here?” he asks. 

“I couldn’t live without it,” I say dryly.

“Hm, so would you say you like working here?” 

“I can’t imagine working anywhere else, honestly. Here we are! The history section, subsection, summoning!” 

“Oh, I was hoping to see the Practice section, actually. Never specified, sorry.”

“Oh, um. Yeah, it’s gonna be this way.” I pass through a few book-bays and we finally come to a decorated group of shelves filled with crystals, books, grimoires, tarot decks, chalk sets, toy daggers, and a select few YA books featuring witches.

“This is perfect! You seem to know your way around this place pretty well, good for you.”

I shrug, “I’m just glad I could be of help.”

“I look forward to it,” he says as I turn to walk away. 

A chill catches in my spine. “Sorry?”

“Oh,” he crouches to get a book on a bottom shelf. “I’m the new-hire. I’ll be replacing Debby soon.”

‘Debby’ who strictly goes by ‘Debra’ to employees is our manager we begrudgingly respect. 

“Wait, you’re our new manager?” I sort of laugh in disbelief. 

He picks out a thick, purple grimoire. “Yeah. My name’s David.”

I shake his hand. His shake is a little too firm with me.

“Grace.” 

“Pleasure. Well, I’ll be seeing you around.” We part ways and I practically sprint back to the register to fill Cassandra in. 

“He’s our new WHAT?”

“Yeah, I don’t know how to feel about it,” I say. “He kinda gives me bad vibes.”

“Girl, what? He’s cute.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like the way he judged you for not being at the help desk.”

She rolls her eyes, “That could’ve been anyone else’s job.”

I glance at Travis in the bakery. He’s overwhelmed with customers, scrambling to write down orders as he goes. A trickle of white smoke is coming from the toaster behind him as it begins to beep. 

“We’re the only ones in the store, dude. Also it looks like Travis could use a hand.”

Cassandra sees the drama as it unfolds, “Holy shit!” She runs off. 

I steep in misery for the next half-hour. I think back to the fortune and the crappy luck I’ve been having lately. But then I remember that this is just a phase. Things will get better but only in a certain amount of time. August is only six months away, after all. 

When I see David again, he’s wearing an apron, like me. “Okay! Since we’ve already had the pleasure of introductions out of the way, let’s talk about some new store policies.”

“What new store policies?” I ask. 

“The ones I brought over from the other store. You know, with me.” Our eyes lock and suddenly the stars make it as clear as day. His irises constrict and I can feel the room darken as mine do too. A wave of nausea blasts at me from his direction as a cold sweat begins to form on my forehead and down my neck. Every follicle of hair on my body raises. My nemesis. This is he. 

“Whoa, did you feel that?” he feigns a dizzy spell. “Was there an earthquake or something? Weird.” Without another word, he walks off. 

I stand there, dazed. 

Cassandra returns, burn marks on her apron. A little fleck of her well-textured hair smokes. “Well we got the line down, thank the stars.” 

“Cass,” I mumble. “The new manager…”

“David?”

“Yeah, David…” his name makes me suddenly want to vomit. I gag. “Dude, he’s my nemesis.” 

Cassandra blinks. I can see the gears turning in her head as she processes. Finally, her eyes half-close. “Yeah, I can see it.” 

I’m still rigid. “Do I…? Do I go home or something? Like do I find a new job?”

Cassandra leans on the register. “Nah, dude. People work with people they hate all the time. Check your star map and I bet it looks pretty much the same.” 

“I don’t have– oh, right, the app.” I pull out my phone and direct it upwards, as if waiting for a good signal. My little patch of stars, the ones I was born under, pass peacefully in space. When I zoom in for a better look I see a nebula I hadn’t noticed before: an explosion of greens, blues, and purples. “Shit,” I say, passing the phone to Cassandra. She whistles softly. 

“Looks like there’s gonna be some major changes coming soon.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “But hey, change isn’t always bad, you know?”

I frown at her. “During retrograde? During Aquarius?”

She chuckles. “I didn’t say it had to happen right this minute… But hey, sometimes you come across a diamond in the rough.” She lifts her hand from my shoulder and I suddenly feel cold and alone. “Besides, Aquarius isn’t all that bad for me. Maybe some of my decent luck will rub off on you.” 

I sigh. “Imma head home early, I think.”

Cassandra finally brushes the soot out of her hair. “You do you, boo.”

★ ★ ★

I sit on the metro on the way home. I didn’t spend very long at work today, but I somehow feel completely drained. I check my phone. It’s still locked in on the image of the nebula from earlier. The beautiful bespeckled cloud will somehow form new worlds and maybe give life to some new stars. Destinies in the making, I think to myself. 

A waft of warm air enters through one of the metro’s open doors. Funny, I think to myself as the most pleasant smell hits me. Usually it’s so cold on the metro at night. I suddenly remember I left work early and I’m just not used to afternoons. But the smell still lingers before me, like fresh rain on old wood. 

Suddenly, a glimmer of light catches my eye: a pair of skate shoes with moons and stars. When I look up from my phone, someone is standing in front of me, holding a book down by their thigh. Diamonds And Forever the title reads, its little cover adorned with a glossy blue diamond. 

I look up and lock eyes with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She notices me and our eyes lock. Suddenly the world feels right-side up after a long delay of upside-downs. The metro light behind her illuminates her curly brown hair like a halo around her face. I smile and she does too. 

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi!” she says back.

I suddenly realize I have nothing to say to her, much less think about. 

“Mind if I sit?” she asks, mercifully.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I say before making room. She sits right beside me and I swear gravity shifts in her direction. 

“I’m Grace, by the way.” 

“Nebula,” she says, taking my hand in hers. “You can call me Lua, though.”

“That’s amazing.” 

“Yeah?” she laughs. I realize I must be smiling like an idiot. 

I shift gears, “Whatcha reading?” 

“Ah, some book about destiny theory.”

“Oh cool! I work in a bookstore and I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.” 

“You work in a bookstore? That’s so cool!” We can’t stop talking from there as the rest of the world vanishes around us. The pains of the day dissipate behind me and the universe becomes just a little brighter.

★ ★ ★

Needless to say, I miss my stop.