Вино из одуванчиков

           HetouchedTom’swristandTomcollapsedintoasighingruin,backuponthebed.

           DouglaspickeduptheMasonjarwiththecolddarklumpsinitandthecoollightsflickedonagain,asifgivenlifebyhishand.HeliftedtheMasonjartowhereitshonefitfullyonhissumming-up.Thefinalwordswaitedtobewritten.Buthewentinsteadtothewindowandpushedthescreenframeout.Heunscrewedthetopofthejarandtiltedthefirefliesinapaleshowerofsparksdownthewindlessnight.Theyfoundtheirwingsandflewaway.

           Douglaswatchedthemgo.Theydepartedlikethepalefragmentsofafinaltwilightinthehistoryofadyingworld.Theywentlikethefewremainingshredsofwarmhopefromhishand.Theylefthisfaceandhisbodyandthespaceinsidehisbodytodarkness.TheylefthimemptyastheMasonjarwhichnow,withoutknowingthathedidso,hetookbackintobedwithhim,whenhetriedtosleep...

           Thereshesatinherglasscoffin,nightafternight,herbodymeltedbythecarnivalblazeofsummer,frozenintheghostwindsofwinter,waitingwithhersicklesmileandcarved,hooked,andwax-pourednosehoveringaboveherpalepinkandwrinkledwaxhandspoisedforeverabovetheancientfanned-outdeckofcards.TheTarotWitch.Adeliciousname.TheTarotWitch.Youthrustapennyinthesilverslotandfarawaybelow,behind,inside,machinerygroanedandcogged,leversstroked,wheelsspun.Andinhercasethewitchraisedupherglitteryfacetoblindyouwithasingleneedlestare.