The first thing I write is Virgo: Nothing. Virgos hate receiving gifts. Their taste is hyper-particular and nothing is good enough for them. They’ll typically sell or donate whatever you give them. Don’t waste your time or money.

For Scorpio I write, A classic black dress or timeless coat, which are just the things I want. Maybe Thomas will give them to me. Maybe Beau will give them to me.

I remember my big idea, then draft an email to my Vice editor: PITCH: Why Astrology Is Bullshit: From a Professional Astrologer. Then I write out my inner monologue from the previous night, about how all astrological placements represent some part of the universal human experience, so we can all find ourselves in any of them. I’m sure my editor will bite. Vice loves to denounce popular things.

I return to making more notes about gifts for the signs. After writing the pitch, I feel less pressure to be “accurate.” The point is to nail the magic combination of vague and specific and wicked and entertaining.

I write, Sagittarius: Fun luggage. Sags love to travel and they love to be perceived as “fun.” The louder and more obnoxious the better. I am thinking of Thomas, obviously, who is always jetting off to Thailand or somewhere insufferable white people love to go. Then I get nervous he’s going to take another trip soon and I’ll be left without his generous wallet. I wonder if anyone will buy me a Christmas gift.

For Aries, I just start drawing little hearts. Then I feel a looming presence above me. I look up and try not to gasp. It is Beau, standing right over me. For a second I think I’m dreaming or hallucinating, so I blink and he is still there. I quickly cover my notebook with my hands.

“Hi.” His face is so chiseled it belongs in a museum. “We met at the Big Sleep the other night.”

I feel like all the air is being sucked out of me. I’m not prepared. My mind is racing. “Yeah.” It comes out quietly, hardly a noise at all.

“I’m Beau,” he says. He leans on the chair across from me. A sliver of light from the blinds illuminates his left eye and reveals orange speckles, like the sun is inside his irises. Exalted shit.

“I remember,” I say. Ugh. Why can’t I engage in small talk like a normal person? Why can’t I show him I am interested? Touch his shoulder? Bat my lashes? Instead I sit frozen and rigid, like my skin is made of metal. I pray that my Scorpio stellium is making my paralysis appear enigmatic. I remember why I’m so drawn to astrology: because it gives me an out for being myself.

“Good memory,” he says.