LITMIR.BIZ

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it up and traced the brown paper wrapping where my name had been scrawled in an unfamiliar hand. I tore away the wrapping then unfolded the flaps of the box. A small gift card was nestled on top of layers of white tissue.

      The card read, “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Tabitha, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’ Let’s continue our discussion sometime….” It was signed, “Lucien.”

      I dropped the card carelessly to the counter where Clay eyed it with a wry expression, “Your boyfriend’s fond of quoting Shakespeare’s Hamlet, hmm? I thought you said his name was Todd.”

      I pushed the tissue aside and stared down into the box. All blood drained from my face.

      Clay asked, “What is it?”

      “Nothing.” I hastily tried to recover the gift beneath the tissue.

      “If it’s nothing why are you looking like death warmed over and why are your hands shaking?” I caught his swift frown as Clay elbowed his way in front of me, dug into the box to reveal the gift. “What is this thing?”

      “It’s a scrying mirror.” I dragged my fingers uneasily through my hair.

      “A mirror.” He turned the object over in his hands.

      It was beautiful really—circular, about ten inches in diameter with an expensive pewter beaded frame. Just touching it had sparked a deep feeling of revulsion similar to inhaling the aroma of blue cheese.

      “What kind of a mirror is black?” Clay asked.

      I ignored his question.

      “Sorry, I’m being rude, I should at least offer you a drink.” I opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “Beer? Wine?”

      I looked over my shoulder and he was eyeing me curiously. “A beer will be fine.”

      I tossed him a can and popped the tab on one for myself. The situation was beginning to feel strange. I hadn’t expected Clay to come into my apartment and now that he had, I had no idea what to do with him. Of course, I knew what I’d like to do to him.

      “Who is Lucien?” he asked, interrupting an emerging fantasy involving Clay and me on my linoleum.

      “Um, a friend of a friend. He runs a New Age store called the Scrying Room—” I nodded toward the box “—hence the gift of a scrying mirror.”

      I crossed the floor and fiddled with my small stereo until I found a station playing soft jazz. I returned to my seat and drank deeply from my beer.

      “You don’t seem pleased by the gift.”

      I shrugged. “It’s the thought that counts.”

      “Hmm—” his eyes challenged mine “—and I’m betting his thoughts are beyond friendship.”

      Before I could reply he asked, “So what does this scrying mirror thing do?”

      “Nothing. It does nothing.”

      “It’s just an ornament, then?”

      “No. Um, scrying mirrors are used to help induce visions.”

      He paused with his beer halfway to his lips and smiled. “Visions? And this Lucien,” he said the name mockingly, “he believes that crap?”

      I rankled at his tone. “You know, many people have their minds open to the metaphysical.”

      “If you’re too open-minded, your brains will fall out.”

      I laughed.

      “And since you just said yourself that it does nothing—” he gulped some beer “—perhaps neither one of us has an open mind on the subject.”

      “Okay, so I’m not as open to the whole scrying thing as some people.”

      “Like Lucien.”

      “Exactly, but I do believe in a sixth sense that’s more developed in some people than in others.”

      “Like you.”

      I didn’t reply. Kitty snaked between my ankles purring his thanks for the tuna and marking me with his scent. I bent down and stroked his fur that was quickly drying to black fluff.

      “So are you going to try that thing, then?” He nodded toward the package.

      “No, of course not.” I wondered if my voice sounded as unsure about that answer as I felt. I went to drink more of my beer and discovered it disappointingly empty and his looked the same.

      “Can I get you another?”

      He got to his feet.

      “No, that’s all right, I should go anyway. I only came inside because…” He seemed to grasp to finish his sentence as if he wasn’t sure himself what he was doing here. Well, I certainly couldn’t help him because I was still trying to figure that out myself.

      “I guess I just wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on returning to that vacant building. It’s not a good idea to be stomping all over a crime scene.”

      I walked him the four baby steps from my living room-bedroom over to my apartment door.

      “Thanks for seeing me home and I apologize for spoiling your date. Let Candy know that I’m sorry that she had to take a cab just because you felt obligated to take me home.”

      “I don’t think I’ll be telling Candy that I was in your apartment.”

      “Why not? It’s perfectly innocent and—”

      “Perfectly innocent except for this.”

      He bent his head and his lips brushed mine tentatively. I was in a bewildered daze as he nibbled my lower lip. Before it occurred to me to respond, he ended the kiss and wordlessly slipped out of my apartment.

      I remained leaning against the wall in a state of complete shock for at least a few minutes, afraid I’d collapse. He kissed me. Huh.

      I awoke Sunday morning bleary-eyed from dreams that ranged from a woman bathed in blood to Clay bathed with my tongue. The latter actually caused me to call an emergency brunch meeting. We ducked out of the tapering drizzle and gathered inside Michael’s Diner at ten-thirty in the a.m. Michael’s is a quaint narrow restaurant with a terrific long counter where you can spin on stools while you eat. It wasn’t exactly dinner theater but it was reasonably priced.

      First things first, we ordered food and coffee and dug into the serious conversation once both had been received.

      “Was there tongue, or no tongue?” Jenny inquired from the stool on my right.

      “No tongue,” I replied drinking deeply from my coffee cup.

      “What about breast?” Lara asked from the stool on my left. “Did he go for a grope?”

      “Nope, no grope.”

      We were silent while my friends absorbed the news that the lawyer I’d craved and pined for over the last two years had surprised me with a late-night, passionate kiss.

      “So the guy kissed you? He kissed you in your apartment?” Jenny shook her head slowly. “I don’t get it, why didn’t you just drag him into bed?”

      “Because she’s not a slut, that’s why,” Lara reasoned dipping a corner of her toast into egg yolk.

      “Well, maybe I would’ve tried harder to at least return the kiss if I’d known it was coming,” I explained. “I was frozen in shock. I just stood there like an idiot.”

      “Did you put your arms around him, or anything?” Jenny asked slathering cream cheese on a bagel.

      “No. Nothing. I was a statue. He’ll probably take that as a rejection, right? He’ll think I’m either not attracted to him or that I’m frigid as a Popsicle.”

      Jenny

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