Pieces

I still remember so vividly the first time I met you. You walked into my shop a lovesick young pup. Admittedly it wasn't my shop yet. And I was, as it turned out, only six months older than you. You wanted a love potion you could give to the boy who had stolen your heart. With a glimmer in her eye, my mentor directed you to speak to me first. It was obvious she had no intention of selling you such a concoction. Not the soundest business strategy, but witches are practical not capitalistic.

I wished to give you horrible advice. I thought you were pretty and you smelled like vanilla and I wanted to see you look at me the way you did when you talked about him. But witches are practical; they do not give in to their base emotions so easily. And so we talked, and I advised that you speak to your boy first, that you ought to get to know him. If he turned out to be more than you thought of him, your love would bloom naturally. If he proved to be a fool, you would not be burdened with a foolish paramour.

We made no sale that day, but you gave us a generous tip and went on your way.

It was many years before I would see you again. The shop had been passed to me and I ran it just as my mentor had, and her mentor before her, and so on. I gave people what they wanted, not what they needed. It is not a line of work that earns one much money. But it was satisfactory, and very enjoyable.

I was a young woman then, and you were still six months younger. Your wedding was approaching and you were hoping for a good luck charm to wear. You laughed and told me that it was most definitely not the fool from when you were young. We went over several options for charms and you eventually chose one you told me had a good energy. While checking out, I told you in no uncertain terms that hoping for too much good luck would likely cause the reverse instead.

How I wanted to sell you some gaudy trinket and give you bad advice. But I could not. My brain would not allow my heart the opening.

As you left, you asked whether witches still acted as midwives, provided some day you and your lover had a child. I tried to stop myself from laughing too hard as I explained that you were more or less correct. Witches have to be multitalented, and we could be brought on as doulas. I gave you my number and told you to call me if you ever needed someone. And I tried desperately to not think too hard about the significance I wished the moment held. But it was a business recommendation, nothing more.

You left me a large tip that day too.

It didn't take you long to call me back. The wedding was a massive success and the honeymoon had been, to quote you, 'eventful'. I didn't want to hear any of it, naturally. But I was excited to hear that you were expecting because it meant I would get to see you again. I would be able to spend time with you, to talk with you, to be intimate with you in a way not even your husband could. I suppose that made me a fool, just like the boy who wasn't enough for you. I suppose that was why...

It's unusual to begin working with an expectant mother so soon. But I was eager, and it seemed as though you were too. I taught you everything I knew. I practiced breathing with you. I held your belly and felt your baby kick. I noticed with dismay that your husband was never around, and sometimes I wondered about that.

It's pretty much expected that you will get a call in the middle of the night in my line of work. And signing on to be your birthing assistant doubled the likelihood of such a call. I've never told you this, but I still fear to this day that it was all my horrible negative, jealous energy. After so many beautiful, pleasant days, it seemed somehow just, like the universe was teaching me a lesson at your expense.

The baby was gone, and with no heir, so was your husband. I had thought you were calling to tell me my services were no longer needed. Instead you told me with a cracking voice through ragged sobs that you wanted to see me. That you needed me. My mind was blissfully empty of selfish thoughts, focused entirely on being there for you. I made it to your home in record time, potentially breaking several laws in the process, I don't remember perfectly. You answered the door looking relatively composed, but by the time my arms were around you, all composure was gone once more. I said little, if anything. You spoke when you needed to, and there were other moments of intense silence.

Only when you had passed out there with your head in my lap did I allow myself the time to wonder where this could lead. I regret my timing, but not the love I felt, as I sat there stroking your hair.

Though I was glad for the time we spent together during the coming weeks, I was less grateful for the reasons. Sometimes we would find reasons to laugh until our cheeks hurt. But there were still those moments where you would stop and stare into the middle distance, full of longing and sadness. We never talked quite like we did those first nights, though I wished that you would. But I also knew that you were experiencing something I might never know.

It was months before I finally attempted to tackle the subject. There was wine and some terrible movie playing on your television for little more than background noise. I had barely gotten out the words 'a therapist or support group' before I felt your lips on mine. It was so unexpected that I actually shoved you back. In retrospect, I shouldn't have been so aggressive. I was as angry with myself as I was surprised by you in that moment. “Didn't you hear what I said??” What began as an attempt to gently nudge you toward healing became an argument.

I had tried all my life to avoid fights, to the point that when I was in the middle of one, I had no idea how to behave. We both spoke our minds plainly, perhaps too plainly. The venom in your voice when you finally told me to get out will likely never leave my memory as long as I live. That was the end of things. My poor decisions, my selfishness, my love. I knew I would never see you again after that night.

And yet.

And yet here you are now in my shop. My heart is pumping so hard I can feel it in my every vein. I tried to be cordial and calm. I fear my words have come out too harshly instead. “What can I get you?”

And yet.

And yet you tell me you went to a group therapy session the other week. You tell me I am more than my missteps. You tell me you'd like to get tea some time.

I love tea.