My average days are becoming thick with the Wyrd.
While cooking, he showed me his hand. A line of paler, still tender flesh ran vertically across the palm, not so unlike the Fate Line in palmistry. This is the mark he received several nights prior after wrapping his hand around a handle of a hot cast-iron skillet. One that I had unintentionally heated while preparing for baking. I heard him talk about the pans, and I saw him approach the counter. My mind shouted “Don’t touch!” while my mouth lagged behind the message. He burned himself due to my lack of intervention. He forgives graciously, but forgetting is not an option.
“That mark will probably be permanent,” he says.
I furrow my brow in disappointment in myself and in beseechment of forgiveness from him once again.
He shrugged and smiled. “Now I get to say that this mark is from the Witch I live with that scarred me for life.”
Silent laughter erupted as we both nodded and exchanged knowing looks. “It’s true,” we both agreed.
And then I said: “Witches tend to do that, y’know…”
We ascended the majestic staircase side-by-side; it was important for our ascendance to be just that way. Neither could attempt to lead or follow. When one rushed forward or fell back, the staircase flattened and stretched, becoming a conveyor belt that sent us backward.
So we walked together, talking and enjoying each other’s company. The air grew thin and the visuals danced like stop-motion oil paintings. Agape we pressed onward: Up, Up and Away.