" I never thought about Laura that way." I thought to myself while taking another sip of my vieux carre. Anjoli and I had become close friends over the past few months. We were cosmic twins. January 9th. She was 1986 and I was 1989. We were bound by Capricorn. She took me under her wing as both an astrologer and dance movement therapist. For weeks now Anjoli and I were focused on creating choreography for an upcoming showcase at the Unitarian Church. It was after one of our sessions that we found ourselves at the notorious neighborhood speakeasy called "The Coupe" "Well, maybe you should." She said firmly while sipping her old fashion. She continued now with a sly smirk, "I think the two of you have more in common than you think." Anjoli was a witchy woman. No taller than 5 ft with a huge head of jet black curls and long fingernails painted in a deep red hue. "Hmm, Laura" I said, wondering if after all these years I could grow romantic feelings for her. She was never my type. I always fell for more eccentric, artsy types. "Close to gate" types my grandmother would call them. But Laura was a 9-5 social worker, former marching band geek and an Italian-american Staten islander way too much like me. We were friends since high school. She was always a character on the periphery of my social circles, but every time my social circle changed, she remained a constant. From high school drinking parties to community meditations groups, to north shore performing art clubs, we hung in the same groups. We never grew close as friends, but were always friendly. "Can I get you guys another drink," Johnny the bartender asked as the chain on his jeans jangled by his hip. "Let's have one more" Anjoli suggested as we ordered another round of old fashions and vieux carres. "I'll have those right up." Johnny turned and jumped up onto the counter. He reached for the switch to a small disco ball hanging from the ceiling. The motor whirled and the ball started spinning. Thousands of sparkles swam across the walls in this slow surreal way that made the bar feel like a timeless refuge. "So Laura"... Anjoli's face stared at me sideways with a playful grin. "Didn't you know it was her in class yesterday that was holding you in her arms during the improv?" She admitted. "It was?" I tightened my eyes considering the implications. "Yes! I never saw chemistry like that in class! You guys were lost in your own world. What did you feel?" Anjoli leaned in to ask. A sharp flicker of light gleamed off of her nose ring. "I felt vulnerable." I said. "But I also felt a comforting permission. Like I could just let go and fall into the abyss of my own vulnerability…" I stared past Anjoli into the vague and unfocused movements of the people talking behind her. It was only a week ago that I was at a wild apothecary in Manhattan called "The Alchemists Kitchen" — a very modern plant medicine enclave riddled with astrology books, mushroom figurines and homemade potions. It was the type of place you go to find adaptive mushroom blends to replace your coffee, or a giant smudge stick to clear the negative energy in your house. I was about to checkout when I noticed their monthly newsletter for sale on the counter. It was a slender paperback with no more than 15-20 pages. The cover was a deep red and the title read, "The season of Love" in an art deco font that exuded a mystical whimsy. Below the title a smaller headline read, "full moon love spell inside" I was always keen on divinations but I never casted a TRUE spell before. The witchy kind that require candles, spices and other occult ingredients. 'Season of love' was the exact vibe I was after. I was ready to call-in a new soulmate and perhaps now I had the spell to do it. I grabbed a copy along with a bar of CBD chocolate and away I went to catch the next subway to the ferry. Back at the coupe, Anjoli was sprawled across the bar top clacking her long fingernails at Johnny for another drink. It was half past two and the energy in the bar shifted from dashboard confessionals to a rowdy saloon. "I'll take the bill Johnny!" "You got it Mikey!" he shouted as he chiseled at a large block of ice. I fished out our coats from the rack and helped Anjoli put hers on. She grabbed my shoulder and pulled me close to her, "Laura...you and Laura... it's a good thing. Besides, I think she REally likes you." Her voice tailed upwards to build more excitement. I was feeling saucy but coherent enough to get our stuff together, pay the bill and get us both home. I threw on my brown wool blazer and my favorite gold scarf from the tibetan museum. We muscled our way through the crowd and into my car parked in front. The sidewalk was cluttered with cigarette smokers wearing long black overcoats and a large green trash receptacle from the City of New York overflowing with fast food bags and empty coffee cups. I only lived two doors down but I had to drive Anjoli home a few blocks over. As we were ready to leave she opened the door again, leaned out the passenger side and puked onto the curb. With a deep breath she rose back into her seat, looked over to me and said, "Ok, let's go." When I finally got back to my place it was approaching 4am. A group of younger people were huddled outside 'The Coupe' laughing and freezing as they waited for an Uber. I approached the big red door that lead into the vestibule of my apartment, followed again by another big red door into the hallway. The warmth thawed the cold from my cheeks as the radiators hissed loudly throughout the building. The apartment was laid out in an old railroad style where one room follows after another in linear fashion. My roommate Dan was fast asleep in the middle room so I used the hallway entrance into my own room. My bedroom was small but it had a magnificent old wooden mantle made of tiger oak with honed marble on the inside and expertly carved cylindrical pilasters framing a cast iron cover. The landlord was a preservationist and he worked meticulously to restore it. The plastered crown mouldings and ceiling motifs made the room feel regal and authentic to the early 1900's when it was built. The room was positioned at the very front of the house facing Van Duzer street, Staten island's premier bohemian corridor with two bars and a bodega on the corner. I could hear an old man shouting nonsense at the intersection as police sirens blared from around the corner. The neighborhood sounds came in through my window like a white noise machine of ceaseless urban chatter. After a hearty chug of water I collapsed into bed, closed my eyes and started to drift. A vague smell of cinnamon cast a celestial charm as I fell into a deep sleep. Because of one very bright streetlight right outside my window, my room could never get dark. Even with the heavy brown curtains I bought to cover them, the outline of the room always remained visible in the ambient light. And there on the mantle, beside me as I slept, a white tea saucer covered in red wax hardened over rose petals and sugar granules still drenched with the smell of cinnamon.