Ugh. I woke up with a headache and a dapper, green-haired Victorian ghost in my bed, staring at me.
āGood morning, Writer.ā
āAugust.ā
āMimosa for breakfast?ā
āI hate you.ā
āYes, I know.ā He floated out of bed. I knew he wanted his card so I followed him to the office, despite the duet of protests from my head and stomach. I drew the Seven of Cups reversed.
āYouāve made some kind of decision, but you arenāt acting on it. You need to.ā I put the card down, suddenly remembering last night. āOr you have acted on it, but not as decisively as you should.ā August just looked at me, he opened his mouth to say something but only a wet rasp came out.
āIām going back to bed,ā I said and left him hanging in midair, gaping like a fish.
'The Day After' works so well as art for this story. :)