Tarotica

behind. And Henry, whose employees respected him because he treated them with respect.

“I’m glad I had the opportunity to meet you all,” she said, sincerely.

She’d never managed to do Josh—it turned out he had a steady girlfriend and wasn’t the cheating kind— which was okay with Miranda. He was definitely cute, but not as cute as Eli.

Card 5: The Hierophant

When Miranda opened her eyes, dawn was leaking through the curtains of her room in the little B&B near Durango, Colorado. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to go back to sleep, but her bladder wouldn’t let her. Reluctantly, she pushed herself up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her stomach lurched. Her head roared like a blender whipping up a batch of daiquiris.

Way too many daiquiris, she lamented as she stumbled into the bathroom. She peed, then splashed cold water on her face. What a night. She glanced at herself in the mirror, decided, I look like hell, and searched through her toiletry case for some Alka Seltzer.

That cute Jamaican guy with the dreadlocks had sure done some amazing things with rum. And with his tongue. Miranda smiled, remembering how he’d brought a tray of frozen strawberry-and- banana cocktails to her table beside the swimming pool. She was sitting with three women who’d invited her to come with them to a party given by a software tycoon at his mountainside mansion.

The Jamaican’s flowered swimming trunks hung low on his hips, revealing six-pack abs and a hint of curly dark hair peeking above the waistband. His sleek skin shone like polished mahogany. He caught Miranda sizing him up and grinned, his teeth sparkling like stars. As he leaned forward to set her glass on the table, his hand brushed her shoulder and he spilled some of the icy drink on her arm.

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “Let me clean it up.”

He knelt beside her and slowly licked her arm with his long, soft tongue. Every nerve ending in Miranda’s body tingled. When he’d finished, he stood up and lewdly ran his tongue over his lips before sauntering off to serve another table.

Giggling, Miranda held her cold drink to her flushed cheek, trying to cool off.

“Oh my God.”

“Down, girl!” one of her companions hooted and fanned Miranda with a napkin.

They clinked their glasses together as the band launched into a reggae tune.

During the course of the evening, they clinked glasses again and again as the Jamaican brought a variety of fruit concoctions laced with golden rum to their table. Miranda lost count of how many she consumed. She remembered dancing the salsa, the rhumba, and the cha-cha. Then someone swept her into a conga line that wound between the tables and around the pool. From time to time, she noticed the Jamaican guy watching her.

When she broke away to go to the bathroom, he was waiting beside the door. He pulled her in, locked the door, and lifted her onto the vanity. Almost before she realized what was happening, he’d removed her swimsuit top and begun making lazy circles around her breasts with his silky tongue as if he were eating an ice cream cone.

Gradually, the circles grew smaller, the tip of his tongue twirling her nipples until she felt herself melting.

He ran his tongue down to her belly, toying with her navel as he slid off the bottom half of her swimsuit. Spreading her legs, he continued his descent. His dreadlocks tickled her thighs as his hot, wet tongue slithered into her seam. The tip of his nose nuzzled her clit as his tongue lapped up her juices. Next he explored her ass. Then he started making delicious, maddening circles around her clit with his tongue, flicking it lightly, and sucking it until she was ready to scream. By the time he thrust his throbbing cock into her, Miranda was delirious with pleasure.

Now, she downed her Alka Seltzer and crawled back into bed. But she couldn’t sleep. Finally she got up again, pulled the curtains aside, and gazed out over a park ringed with trees. A thin mist hovered near the grass. In the faint, yellow-gray light, she could see the ground moving. It rolled and swayed, rising and falling in undulating waves.

Miranda’s first thought was I’m still drunk, followed by Oh my God, it’s an earthquake!

As she grabbed her clothes, the movement took shape. From the shadowy mist human figures emerged— dozens of them—all bending, twisting, turning, and gliding together in a synchronized manner, like dancers performing a strange sort of ballet. Most of them wore baggy white trousers and tunics, as did the slender, bald man who appeared to be leading them. It took her a few moments to realize they were doing tai chi.

Miranda stared at them, transfixed. Men and women, young and old, Asian and Caucasian, moved in harmony with effortless grace. Once or twice she could’ve sworn the leader looked up at her, but how could he know she was watching? When the group finished, parting like the mist dissipating beneath the sun’s rays, she felt an inexplicable sense of peace. Maybe I should try that, she thought as she headed into the bathroom for a long, hot shower.

* * *

By lunchtime, Miranda felt almost normal again. She spotted a Korean restaurant and decided to try it. A string of red, yellow, blue, and green cloth squares hung over the entrance, gently fluttering in the breeze. Inside, she was greeted by exquisite paintings of Asian landscapes on the walls and delicate statues carved from ivory, wood, and jade displayed in ornate cases.

She took a seat and scanned the menu a Eurasian teenage girl brought her. My stomach’s probably not ready yet for anything spicy, she decided. When the girl came back with a pot of tea, Miranda ordered seaweed soup and a noodle-and-vegetable dish called chapahae.

“What are those squares of cloth above the front door?” she asked the girl.

“Prayer flags.” Seeing Miranda’s look of confusion, the girl continued. “A Buddhist tradition. We write prayers and blessings on the cloth, so that when the wind blows it will carry the prayers around the world.”

“What a lovely tradition,” Miranda said. “And the artwork here, it’s beautiful.”

“It’s my father’s work.”

“Your father is very talented.”

“Yes, I think so, too.”

Several minutes later, the girl set Miranda’s lunch on the table and handed her a business card. “My father’s gallery, if you wish to stop by.”

“Thank you. I think I will.”

The Golden Gallery, she noticed, was only a few blocks away. So far she hadn’t devoted much time on this trip to artistic pursuits. Only a little sketching here and there, some photographs, a couple visits to museums. I’ve been more concerned with indulging my body than my mind. Miranda tucked the business card in her purse and dug into the chapahae.

* * *

I’ve been here before, Miranda thought as she entered the gallery with its yellow walls and polished wooden floor. But that’s impossible. This is my first trip to Colorado.

Yet as she gazed at the paintings and sculptures, she couldn’t shake the feeling of deja vu.

Even the incense, burning in a bowl beside a Buddha statue, smelled familiar.

“Good afternoon,” a bald, middle-aged man with pale amber skin and gently sloping eyes greeted her.

He wore a mustard-colored silk shirt with a persimmon ascot, dark brown trousers and loafers. But Miranda saw him barefoot, dressed in the saffron robes of a Buddhist monk. He smiled and his face suddenly seemed much younger, his features more distinctively Asian. My eyes are still playing tricks on me. I’d better stick to wine in the future—no more rum!

Even more peculiar was her immediate and intense attraction to this stranger. Her heart seemed to leap from her chest and dash toward him, as if he were a long-lost lover for whom she’d been desperately seeking.