She sat and sipped her magic potion by the light of the last candle. Outside the meteor showers landed on the neighbors balcony, rendering everything a petrochemical medley of swirling colors. Her potion was tepid now but she could tap it with a nail and make it cold. She could hum over it and boil the water. When she poured it out of the wooden case, letters and numbers had tumbled out. She picked out each one of them and fed them to a milga - a peacock and wolf mix - sitting near her. The milga stared at her - as if trying to locate the amethyst in her dark, burned heart.
The inevitable would happen. The last meteor would stripe the sky. A beaten sun would rise. The milga would pounce on her and kill her. She'd made her peace with that.
She sipped on her potion even more slowly now. She wanted to leave her name behind at the bottom of the glass.
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