Early lunch now. The café is packed with students and workers sitting on chairs and chatting across tables. People just finishing a morning in the office or in the classroom. The roar inside is like a seashore, rising and falling, laughter, a hissing Marzocco machine, tinkling spoons and cups, white plates streaming out of the kitchen.
I order the carnitas with watermelon radish, and why not, a glass of prosecco with lunch. Sunlight glints off the river. Pedestrians shiver outside, leaning against lamp posts coated in rust. The wait is long here. It always is. The place is too popular.
We are three. Usually we meet at night, but this week, noon is the only time that works. An awkward witching hour. There was some protest. We met up anyway.
An awkward silence hangs over the table.
Witch One looks into her tea and starts. “I was working on a project with another witch. We were going into business together, but it didn’t work out. I know she’s putting a spell on me now. I feel it in my bones.”
Witch One looks at Witch Two. “What does the cream on your cappuccino foretell?”
Witch Two stares into her cup. Looks away. “It’s dissipating too quickly. I know it’s over. It is the end.” She begins to cry. Two tears roll down her pale cheeks. “I know it is over. Have to accept it.”
They look at me. “And?” Witch One raises a brow.
“No complaints,” I laugh. “All sparkles and stardust.”
Witch One scowls.
Witch Two wipes her eyes. There is an awkward pause.
“You might need to find a new coven,” Witch One says gently, twisting a ruby ring on her finger.
I am dumbstruck. “Why? Don’t things go well for witches too sometimes? We traffic in good spells too, right? White magic?”
Witch Two shakes her head. “We need to be supportive.” She continues to wipe her eyes.
“I am, I can be a supportive witch,” I say.
They silently disagree. Heads shake slowly. Unspoken spells.
“We can help you find a new spellcasting home,” Witch One promises, hollow as a bird bone, adding, “and please, don’t take this as a commentary on your vocation.”
“Best of luck,” Witch One says.
“Witchy witch luck,” Witch Two says.
“Fine, see you around after dark, maybe.” I try to sound calm. In my palms under the table, fingers scented with the juice of carnitas, I am already working a new hex. Find a new coven. Punish these fools.
Monica lives in Florence, Italy. Her international spirit travels with an American passport. She moonlights as a legal worker when not parenting, project managing, and writing. Monica edits poetry and prose for Open Doors Review out of Livorno, Italy. See all publications and learn more at sharpmonica.com.
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