Page 19 of Aftertaste

Her body trembled, suddenly ravenous. When had she last eaten? She pulled open her backpack, found a bag of Cheetos, and sat down at the table to inhale them when she noticed the tarot cards still there.

Her fingertips hovered over the deck, itching to read.

He’d already cut. It seemed like a waste not to divine when it was already primed. She flipped the top three cards over and studied them.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

She rushed out of the tent to see if she could catch Konstantin, but he’d already gone.

AROUND 4:00 AM,hunched over the peeling laminate counter in their cramped kitchen, Kostya and Frankie annihilated a plate of Disco fries and a platter of street meat without the use of a single utensil.

Konstantin shoved food into his mouth with his fingers, wolfing it down, swallowing so fast he barely tasted anything. It had been a long time since he’d gorged himself like this, but it came back like riding a bike.

Thiswas comfortable; this was familiar.

Not raising glittering ghosts in some first-class a-hole speakeasy.

Not some unhinged party or vindictive psychic.

Not confessing his aftertastes for the first time since he’d been institutionalized for them, followed by having the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on blow it all up in his face.

This.Binge-eating his feelings in the form of a half-cold halal platter and its various accoutrements.

“Yo, uh, you good, man?” Frankie asked, watching him, a fry halfway to his mouth. “I seen that look before. Listen, I know Alexis meant a lot to you, but bro—”

Kostya shook his head, cramming more meat into his mouth.

“Not about Alexis,” he said, still chewing.

Frankie put down his fry and pulled the Styrofoam box out of Kostya’s reach.

“Well then what? ’Cause this ain’t healthy.”

Kostya swallowed and stared for a long time into Frankie’s face, deciding.

“Actually,” he said at last, “you wanna hear something crazy?”

FRANKIE TOOK HIMat his word.

It was how he was raised, to believe that the world was more mysterious and miraculous than most people ever saw. His Dominicana grandmother practiced Las 21 Divisiones and made daily sacrifices to the Loas for his protection. His Irish grandmother was as Catholic as they came and stronger than she looked, and had just about beaten the Lord into him as a kid. As a result, Frankie’s own belief system fell somewhere between spiritual and superstitious, gospel and Vudú and Jesus and the Diablo Cojuelo all sitting around, having a beer, and there was a lot he believed in that most people wouldn’t.

“That’s fucked up,” Frankie pronounced when he’d finished, handing Konstantin a beer. “I can’t believe Madame E did you like that.”

“She’s probably right.” Kostya took a long sip. Thinking. Wallowing. “I mean, I should just leave it alone, right? Let sleeping ghosts lie, or whatever.”

“Nah, man. Listen to me. Way I see it, they choseyou. They’re all ‘Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi,’ and you gon’ be like, ‘Sorry, no, I’m good’? You’re theirdude. Maybe their only shot at a happy afterlife. Fuck what she said! Think aboutthem.”

Kostya picked at the label on his bottle. Peeled it off.

“I only did it the one time. That’s not enough to be sure of anything.”

“All right, then. Come on. You’re gonna pick another recipe and we’re gonna hit it. We can use Wolfpup.”

“I dunno.”

“You really wanna spend your life standing still? Taking orders from people who don’t know you from Sunday?”

Kostya wasn’t sure what he wanted, but looking around their apartment—the mold-eaten brick, the watermarked ceiling, the pocked hardwood and saggy futon and greasy counter and ancient stove, the drafty bay window just threatening to glow with the first quivering rays of another new day of unemployment and self-loathing—it probably wasn’t this.

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