The Rest of Our Lives

“I was taught that witches are of the devil, and that they’ll have their place in Hell,” I said to him once.

“Sounds like you’ve already had your place in Hell,” he said. “Welcome to my heaven.”

“But the stuff that I do is autonomic. Initially, anyway, it was more a reflex than an act of will. All I do is whistle. I don’t mix potions. I don’t cast spells.”

“You could if you wanted to,” he said, and proceeded to show me how. He taught me how to follow the phases of the moon and the connection between symbol and intention: between the soothing scent of fresh lavender and a quiet mind, between the tingling of
rosemary and clarity. The lessons were simple, but they opened a door. Aidan was an inspiring instructor, particularly when the class moved out of the herb garden.

A little mixing of science and magic made our bathroom into a meteorological laboratory. By simultaneously heating and cooling the air and water, we could create miniature thunderstorms in the shower, something that never failed to rev his engines.

We discovered all sorts of creative and provocative uses of our powers. With just the right balance of relaxed concentration and imagination, I could fashion a hollow cube of ice on my tongue and envelope whatever part of him that he offered … fingers. . toes … nipples …his ever-ready lightning rod … wherever he wanted a jolt. He could put his mouth on me—anywhere—and instantly cause the blood to rush to my head—either one. Magic poppers he called it. His power to levitate proved pretty handy as well. Once we managed to do it with my butt hovering over him on the bed.