8/4/17

Hangover

Ugh. I woke up with a headache and a dapper, green-haired Victorian ghost in my bed, staring at me.

“Good morning, Writer.”

“August.”

“Mimosa for breakfast?”

“I hate you.”

“Yes, I know.” 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.

“You’ve made some kind of decision, but you aren’t acting on it. You need to.” I put the card down, suddenly remembering last night. “Or you have acted on it, but not as decisively as you should.” August just looked at me, he opened his mouth to say something but only a wet rasp came out.

“I’m going back to bed,” I said and left him hanging in midair, gaping like a fish.