Subtropical feels different today. I don’t recognize any of the waiters, who are even “hotter” than normal. Maybe because it is nearing evening and I usually arrive before noon. Maybe this is when Beau comes, before he goes to the Big Sleep.

The vibe is different at this hour too. There are candles on every table. Future is playing and bass shakes the room. It feels less like a coffee shop and more like a bar. My eye catches a man in a bedazzled Tupac T-shirt.

I take my typical table by the door, now illuminated by a black candle, and open my laptop. One of the “hotter” waiters shuffles over and says, “Just so you know, laptop hours end at five.”

I check the time: it’s 4:37 P.M.

I glare at him. I wanted to get at least an hour of work in. I recall Marta looking at that crumpled piece of paper on my doorstep. I need to make money.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because,” he says. He’s wearing a tight black shirt and sturdy denim jeans and his hair is greased into a wave. “Boss’s rules.” He walks away.

I open my Instagram DMs. I have just one request. I can read a chart in seventeen minutes. I can make $200 in seventeen minutes. I am going to be fine. Especially now that I have Beau. He doesn’t know who I am, but that’s okay. He will.

The chart is easy because it has a few stelliums, or clusters of planets in the same house or sign. Stelliums make things quicker because I don’t have to write a separate description for each placement. I have a Google Doc where I have descriptions of all the stelliums, so I can just copy and paste. I save every description I’ve written of every placement and aspect, so I copy and paste those as well. I haven’t written all the combinations yet—there are millions of possible permutations—but with each reading, I build my arsenal and make future readings faster. No one has yet called me on the fact that I am constantly plagiarizing myself. And everyone thinks that their reading is so special and unique, even though for each I use the exact same language I’ve used for potentially hundreds of other people.

Then I recall Beau’s stunning, blessed birth chart.

Astrology is a con, but it’s also divine. My Gemini moon is holding both conflicting ideas at once—duality, baby.

“Laptop hours are up,” says the wavy-haired man as I start the last sentence of my chart on the lilith, the dark side, my favorite.

“I just need a minute,” I say, still typing, not looking up. “Sorry,” he says. “Boss is strict about the rules.”

“Are you kidding?” I say. “It’s just one sentence.”

“Not kidding,” he says.