A week after you tell me that we’re not in a relationship, even though you’ve been fucking me raw and held my hand the whole drive home from Providence, my friend tells me to leave a jar of water out during the full moon. “It will give you power,” she says. “It’s in Taurus, and they’re stubborn fuckers.” I do as she instructs, take one of my Mason jars and fill it up. In the morning my roommate, meaning well, empties it out, and I think of the Five of Cups, the card I drew when I queried what was going to happen to us—which is to say, disappointment. We both knew you’d disappoint me, the signs were there from the beginning, the days you’d take to respond to texts, my therapist and best friend telling me you were avoidant—all of that on one side of the scales and on the other, the night you nestled against me and called me a good woman. And I’m not sure I am either of those things but I didn’t mind when you said it. That night I thought my spell was working—your name in a jar of honey from my mother’s country, meant to bring me that slow-moving sweetness, coax you out of your Cancer shell and into commitment. Why do I believe these things when I’m a scientist—which is to say, rational. I kept sleeping with you long after I knew I shouldn’t, and I keep your name in the honey jar, make more moon water, reshuffle my deck until I draw the Four of Cups—which is to say, not now, but maybe later.