The Last Time He Kissed Me like It was the Last Time

I was thirty-two and single, which meant, I had sixteen Love Coins to spend that year. 

The math was simple: half your age, rounded down. 

No exceptions.
We weren’t allowed to romantically entangle ourselves without Arcana Consultation. 
It started in the early 2040s after the great AI-Pope schism and Reality Wars. 
The Arcana had stepped in after determining humanity had really lost touch with it’s sense of symbolism and could not be trusted to choose their own leaders, let alone soulmates.

The Tarot Parlour closest to me had been converted from an old entertainment theatre. 
Inside was gilded and gaudy, lined with peeling velvet, flickering Wheel of Fortune sign, and gold-trimmed, red curtains that smelled like showgirls and dust.
There was a short line to get in when I arrived, but nothing crazy for a Wednesday morning.

At my turn (the ‘vacancy’ of a ‘no vacancy’ neon lighting up), I slid one Love Coin into a slot on the door and waited.
The coin clinked optimistic, but the mechanism opening the door groaned, as if it was making some sort of judgment.

One Love Coin gave you a Standard Consultation with a four card spread.
An emergency session let you skip the line, but would cost you three Coins and only got you one (usually huffy) card.
You could spend your entire yearly allotment for a “check list guarantee” match signed by The Lovers (even if their union was, according to gossip, purely symbolic) and in theory, that always sounded good, but didn’t mean you got what you needed.



I had never chanced it before.
And didn’t know many others who had either.
A friend’s sister once?
Who had ended up marrying her match, but it had come with a lot of surprising compromises 
(mostly sleep because he had chronic night terrors and slept-walked). 


The Universe was funny about teaching lessons like that.

I pulled back the velvet curtains, heavy with the haunts of a thousand desperate questions, and let them fall shut behind me. 

The second my foot hit the Asking Platform, a trumpet blast vibrated through the sound system, followed by a big band swing so loud it rattled dust off the ceiling.
The lights dimmed.
A hush.
Four spotlights snapped on, illuminating the stage and my four card spread, standing at attention like washed-up vaudeville stars.
They weren’t the Arcana themselves of course, just local community stand-ins. 

Channeling a sliver of divine consciousness was a hell of a gig. Good ones even developed cult like followings.

Our local Devil, for example, was particularly popular on the Socials for his memorable delivery, piercing eye contact and hand-sewn bondage inspired fits.

The spotlights flickered and one of the cards (The Magician) yawned before bowing. 
He wore a once-glamorous coat now frayed at the cuffs, sleeves patched with mismatched silk. 


“Place your bets,” his voice a velvet purr, “Will it be happiness or a cautionary tale?”


Death, the card next to him, exhaled with a sigh that smelled like old newspapers.
A cigarette dangled from his lips, unlit.


This Death (we had two who switched half way through the year), had once gone viral for an edit of himself clapping back at someone who’d teased him for never actually smoking it.
He was an older stand-in, sleek like a Greaser with the world-weary grace of an opera diva, tired of her own encores. 
He didn’t stand so much as loom with a casual slouch that made his shadow stretch long and thin across the stage. 


“Spoiler,” he said, his voice a gravel-road rasp, “It’s always a cautionary tale…”



“To pour decisions,” said the Knight of Cups, next in line, raising his glass and cheering with a hiccup. 

He was the embodiment of beach chic gone to seed. 

His hair was sun-bleached and artfully messy (probably actually just messy) and had on a linen shirt unbuttoned maybe one too many. His tan hinted of long afternoons spent not on a surfboard, but a yacht deck with a bottle of rosé.

This stand-in definitely leaned hard into the ‘Cups’ part of his title.



From the back of the stage, the Ace of Coins pulled up a barstool. She was a study in contrasts: severe, mod alt vibe clashing with the very obvious costume of old-world glamour. In a floor-length, silver sequin gown with a shock of platinum cropped pixie hair, she sat side saddle while twiddling a gold coin between her knuckles and starring me down. 



“How many Coins do you get a year?” she asked, her voice devoid of the other’s theatrical flourish. 

“Sixteen,” I answered.

“And you have fifteen left? It’s September…” the coin froze between her thumb and forefinger.



I wasn’t sure how they always knew how many coins you had left, but they always knew.

Maybe the divine connection was involved?

Did your financial record cosmically sync when you stepped on the platform?

Or, maybe there was a screen with your tally in the back?

Face scanning?



“Why be frugal now? That’s basically self-sabotage,” the Ace of Coins smiled with a slash of dark lipstick that didn’t reach her eyes. 

“Why waste time on maybes when The Lovers could handpick you a guarantee?”


“Well, no offence, but I think you might be biased,” I looked to the other cards for validation.
The Magician was practicing making a pink scarf disappear up his sleeve.

The Knight of Cups was indicating his cup needed refilling to someone off stage.

Only Death was looking back and he gave a slow, deliberate shrug that seemed to say “I just work here.”


“Come on, you’re old enough to have learned by now what you’re looking for, no?” 


She got me with that one.

Yeah, I should know what I want by now, shouldn’t I?
Someone who was well-read and witty but could still build a house from scratch with their bare hands.
A hot accent wouldn’t hurt.
Someone who’d call me ‘you impossible creature’ like it was a love poem or who wanted land not just to own, but to worship on, to kneel in. A life where we could grow tomatoes and name them like they were our own children. 



Should I risk it?



“Fine,” I sighed, inserting the rest of my coins into the convenient slot-mounted pedestal in front of me.
Another big band crescendo exploded and the lights blinked in alternating rainbow colours.
They really went all out when you spent your allotment.

The Ace of Coins snapped her fingers and the stage lights dimmed.
A slow, saccharine violin swelled from nowhere (Lovers theme music apparently) and the velvet curtains at the back of the stage parted with a dramatic SWOOSH.

The Lovers glided forward on a floating heart-shaped chaise, entwined in a way that suggested either passion or scoliosis, gold-leaf skin glinting under a spotlight that tracked their every move.
The male was a sculpted Adonis with a rose between his teeth.
The female was an ethereal beauty with tiny star-shaped, silver freckles across her nose and who sighed perpetually as if on the verge of a sonnet.

They were our city’s most famous stand-ins, but that was a given. The Lovers were always hot, it was a prerequisite.
It wasn’t enough to be charismatic, you had to look like you’d been sculpted by Eros himself. 
Their faces were plastered on murals in the Arts District, their #LoversLive streams were dissected for hidden meanings by fan podcasts, and every Halloween, hundreds of couples stumbled through the streets in cheap replicas of their gold-leaf togas. 
Every city consumed it’s Lovers like sacred celebrities, blissfully ignoring the whispers of any off-stage bad blood.

They remained posed, until in perfect union, their voices honeyed into a single command: 
“Darling mortal, state what your heart desires.”

I swallowed, an involuntary shiver raised the hair on my arms.


They were good.



“Well, someone smart but with a cheeky smirk, I think…who can quote from their favourite books but also keep a…”


“Yes, yes,” the male twitched, “A poet-warrior, entrepreneurial farmer type with a devastating accent and capable hands,” he said pulling out a crystal ball. 
I stood slack-jawed because he was distractingly hot, but mostly because he was spot on.



Both their bodies went slack for a split second, heads lolling, before snapping back to perfect posture as if jolted by divine electrical current. 
The crystal ball began to swirl with red smoke, parting to reveal a cinematic montage of a man with slicked-back hair putting on a helmet, scratching the ears of a very large, menacing dog, and studying blueprints inside a school bus.
The female Lover pulled a gold pen from behind her ear and wrote on a gilded note card before passing it over to me.

“He will message you within the hour and gush about your looks and his dog…entertain him, he’s a Leo.”

Her eyes flicked up from the card and met mine.

For a microsecond, the stardust-and-sonnets persona dropped and I saw a look of pure, weary, female solidarity.


A Leo. Of course he is.

Then she blinked and the ethereal mask slid back into place, her smile as placid and impersonal as a screen saver.

The Lovers didn’t say goodbye.

They didn’t need to.

The platform beneath my feet vibrated, the Parlour sign for “transaction complete, please exit the premises”, and the four spotlights over the other cards winked out one by one, plunging The Magician, Death, and the Knight of Cups back into the shadows. 
I caught a final glimpse of The Ace of Coins collecting my coins from a lockbox before the curtains rustled behind me, and parted open to spill dull, afternoon light back into the dark theatre.
My audience was over.



I stumbled out, the card still clutched in my hand.

I looked at it again:



Joaquin Silver

Reformed British banker.
Nomadic Visionary and Dog Mom.



I smiled.
Outside, the world looked exactly the same: same cracked pavement, same car traffic, same people scrolling their Social Surfaces, utterly unaware that I was now holding a cosmic manifest for my future husband.



The texting began within the hour, as promised.
A good first omen, though I was out of coins to confirm it.

He was a flood of positivity and affirmation, a curated gallery of perfect moments: childhood recollections about lying his way out of breaking a prized fossil from his father’s collection, endearing updates about preserving his dog’s lineage (the same breed he’d had his entire life), and a school bus renovation (yes, he owned a school bus).


It was a compelling narrative, but I’d learned to rely on the Tarot Parlours for interpretation.
Everyone knew a story could be spun a dozen ways without the Arcana to channel the symbolism.

It was just noise, otherwise.

We soon fell into a rhythm, a modern courtship conducted within the new rules.

He’d send positive affirmations in the morning and I’d trade those for music and movie recs. 
Safe currency for early connection. 

Texts progressed into phone calls, and while I had no strong inclination if I was attracted to him yet, my uncertainty pricked at me.

Shouldn’t I feel something?
Why wasn’t I as into it as I thought?

Wasn’t this exactly what a “check list guarantee” was supposed to filter out?

Then, before our first date he said “If you ever get the chance to meet my dog…and oh, I do hope you do…you’d love her.”

It was delivered in the most painfully earnest, Jimmy Stewart way and hit me straight in the gut, like a cheat code the bypassed the system entirely.
Something inside finally clicked into place, agreeing to give this man a chance.
(Truth be told, I’ll always be a sucker for Jimmy Stewart). 



Our first date was delayed by two weeks.

He had training in the desert and I had a pleasantly full social calendar, but he’d texted: 
The wait will be worth it!

It was a statement that felt like a promise he couldn’t possibly keep, especially without Arcana consultation to back it up, but the Lovers had signed off, so I clung to that.



As my mind was untrained in reliable symbolism, I latched onto the concrete details:

Height – 5’11’’, a stature I, myself, could achieve in the right shoes.
He’d preemptively declared, “I’m 5’11” so, NOT short”, as if trying to control the narrative before I could draw my own conclusions.

I’d offered a non-committal “mhmmmm” to spare him how I instinctually felt without being validated by a paid professional.


Then there were his photos, delivered an hour after his first text per protocol, like a three-card spread I didn’t know how to read.
Were they endearing or cringey?

The first was a tight-cropped headshot (giving Magician): eyes drilling into the lens, a prominent brow and smirk meant to convey confidence. The second, (moody King of Cups vibes) black-and-white full-body in formal dress, full of performative depth. The third, a candid (very Knight of Wands) with him in a stark white blazer, leaning against a tree, his hair a cascade of Princely waves.

He didn’t look tall, but definitely looked the part of a charmer. 

But was it in an English or Ted Bundy way?


His current biography was a conflicting spread of its own.
He lived in Beverley Hills but was moving closer to me, owned a $5,000 dog and a “string of businesses” and a school bus he was converting into a rental, but didn’t own a car (“being delivered next month”) and thus relied on a motorcycle he claimed to prefer on the tracks, not the streets.
It was a mess of pentacles and wands, a story of claimed wealth and tangible transience. Was he a King or more like the Seven of Cups, all illusion and choice?
Were these the eccentric hobbies of the rich, or the desperate acts of a man in limbo, building from scratch?


The questions were a dull hum in the back of my mind, the kind normally settled by a visit to a Tarot Parlour and the transfer of a single Love Coin.

But, my empty pockets served as a reminder that I’d risked it all and must be comfortable with my unreliable human intuition in the meantime.



We did share the same pipe dream about our individual futures: a bit of earth and farm and bed and breakfast and growing our own produce and bonding with all our (preferably mini) animals, etc.



It would have to come down to the date.



And as first dates go, the Lovers had, wildly over-delivered.
It felt less like a date and more like a living, breathing manifestation of the card itself. 

He was waaaay more attractive in person than in his pictures, for one. 
Clean cut and suave and smelled expensive and warm like amber.
He’d rented a luxury vehicle so I didn’t have to ride on his motorcycle and instead of reminding me of The Joker (like I’d been afraid of), he was more young Sting. 




He’d chosen a place called Flight of Voices, a recording studio where grammy-award winning musician friends manifested each other’s loves songs over assigned drinks, like a flight of wine. 
The walls were plastered in gold records, the energy was pure magic, and every song was about falling in love.
It was so specific to my secret passions that it felt like fate.
The night continued to be a string of perfect, impossible details.

If I’d had drawn cards, I was sure they’d been The Sun, The Star, The Magician and Chariot all at once.
Even though he’d shown up to my place at the event’s start time, by some L.A. miracle, we arrived only 27 minutes later for an 8:00 show that, of course, hadn’t started yet.


The hostess was a fellow Brit and greeted us with a wink.

“Hello lovebirds, we waited just for you!”
(This wasn’t true, but it felt like a benediction, a card drawn just for us anyway).

We slid into our seats with wine in hand just as the lights dimmed.



When a musician later described their goal was to make music that felt like “the first time you finally make out with someone you’re really into,” Joaquin leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Like I’ll be later.”

I delivered my most affronted Southern belle glare, but he bit his lip and I melted a little.

Oh no.

This was the cards in motion and I was already under their spell. 



The night unfurled from there.
He revealed he studied human behaviour and fandom psychology, the same niche market research I did. 
The coincidence didn’t just send goosebumps down my arms, it felt like the Ten of Cups, like the wild, improbable alignment of two paths into one. 
When my post-date bar suggestion ended up being closed, I heard myself say, “Fuck it, let’s go back to mine for a nightcap.”

It was a gamble my usual last Love Coin would have probably warned me against, but The Lovers’ promise was hurtling me forward.

The balcony of my suburban apartment was a far cry from the gold records of the studio, but the moon was almost a full pie and the air was warm and he kissed me like it was summer.
We talked growing up, about the strange paths that led us both to studying the whims of crowds and the psychology of desire. 

The night was rollicking, glorious, and an insufferably witty performance for two.

I declared I would not be sleeping with him, to which he arched a brow and said, “Presumptuous of you to presume I’d bestow the honour.”

But he couldn’t hide his smile.

Still, that was usually my line.

He met my every parry with a thrust of his own, calling my intelligence “spectacular”, my very being “impressive”, all smirk that said he knew exactly how to unravel me. 

An a Aquarian dream.

Mind-fucking and verbal sparring, and for once, I felt like I’d maybe met a match.

He seemed intoxicated by the tease, at the very least, not intimidated by it.



“All this is a treasure and I don’t just share it with anymore,” he’d said while inviting me to my own bedroom.

I told him to calm down but a thrill ran through me. 

“How kind of you,” I deadpanned as he motioned for me to join him on my bed.


It was hot.

He was hot.

I was hot, and together we really turned it on.
It was beginning to feel less like meeting someone new and more like I had conjured him from my own most specific daydreams, like the Arcana had actually delivered.



I eventually kicked him out, a move we both seemed to relish. 

On my doorstep, he turned before leaving, “That’s the best time I’ve had in a long while,” he said, shaking his head, “You’re unbelievable. I’d love to see you again.”

I rolled my eyes and said “Fiiiiiine,” playing at exasperation to hide my own delight.



We dated for a few months after that.

But the more I saw of him, the more context I gathered, the more my judgment (which I’d so dutifully outsourced to the Arcana) came roaring back.

He got news his dog wasn’t breedable.
“The lineage ends!” He lamented and it seemed to swallow him in despair, I, as a silly American, couldn’t fully comprehend.
He fled to the race track, chasing a future that had stalled out.
He confessed he rarely took the lead (despite his professions), preferring to let more dominant personalities push him along. I was sure he was hoping I’d take this as a sexy hint to lean into the personality he’d perceived of me, but I filed it away as a weakness, not an asset. 



The turning point came when I told a story about a peer from my past who’d been a pathological liar, the agonising kind who knew you saw right through them and trapped you both in the performance.
To my horror, Joaquin took his side.


“I can relate,” he said, “I’ve been him.”


In the silence that followed, he saw it.

My judgment, cold and clear. 

After that, every habit and ism of his became cringe.

This is the man The Lovers promised, I kept having to remind myself, but my gut rebelled, conspiring with my expressions to betray me.

The magic of the draw couldn’t sustain the weight of the real man.

Our last date was a movie in theatres.
He’d arrived in full moto regalia: tight leather, wind-blown hair, blacked-out helmet tucked under his arm. He looked like a Knight of Swords reversed, all captivating style and potential recklessness. 

He looked good. 

And I looked good, and we both looked good together.


During the movie, I even felt my mind wander.

I liked his scent, wanted to burrow into the side of his neck and inhale.

But he was entranced, not by me, but by the screen.

Not a single glance, or arm graze my way.
Nothing. (Surprising after our previous nights of passion).
Granted, the movie was about a lone wolf biker who couldn’t connect to the world, so set out to destroy it instead.
I should have taken his entrenchment as the final warning, but stars above, can’t a girl yearn for a little naughty eye contact?



When the movie was over I drove him back to his bike.

He kissed me like it was last time he’d ever see me. 

And, though I didn’t know it yet, it was.



We kept texting, weaving vague insinuations of future plans that “work” or “life” perpetually postponed. The last thing I sent him was an opossum astrology meme that reminded me of his Leo ass. Days later, it got a solitary thumbs-up and the digital silence that followed was absolute. 


For all I know, he’s the first man that ever ghosted me, or
he’s actually dead in a ditch somewhere, a consequence of the street dangers he was so afraid to subject his bike to. 
(Mind, I did my best to figure out which was which, but I’ve learned to live with both truths).

I never went back to the Tarot Parlour for a closure spread. 

Some stories don’t need an official reading to end.
I’d gotten the lesson and I’d hopefully spend my next year’s allotment of Love Coins with a little more wisdom and a lot more trust.

If only I’d understood the spread I’d originally been dealt. 

The Death of an old fantasy. 

The Knight of Cups’ fleeting romance. 

And the true Ace of Coins: the investment I needed to make in myself.