But I didn’t say anything about that table, I thought uneasily. How would they have known I was seriously considering it unless they’d been there to overhear my conversation with the salesman?

I brushed the concerns aside, certain I was being paranoid. Just because I hadn’t specifically mentioned a table didn’t mean a commenter couldn’t have an opinion on it. Or, who knows, maybe that commenter really had seen me in the store—that didn’t mean they were watching me. I had followers all over the world; I was sure I had several thousand here in DC. Maybe one of them happened to be there at that moment.

Maybe.

I went to extinguish the smoldering sage but hesitated. I didn’t believe for a second that the bundle of herbs had mystical cleansing properties, but waving it around couldn’t hurt. Just in case. I carried it around the apartment, self-consciously exorcising any lurking bad vibes.

TWO HOURS LATER, I arrived home from a Reformer Pilates class feeling strong and energized. I loved working out on Reformer machines, but at around forty dollars per class, they weren’t part of my normal routine. After the weird comment about the table, I’d decided to treat myself and then bonded with the studio owner over the fact that we’d both lived in New York before moving to DC. I walked out with a verbal agreement for fifteen sessions in exchange for an Insta post featuring her studio and the possibility of additional classes for more publicity. Like the professional I was, I promised to send her a contract later that night.

I was mentally modifying my standard contract as I unlocked my front door, and so I didn’t notice it at first. It wasn’t until I reached my bedroom that I smelled it.

The sage.

It was burning.

I looked wildly around the room and spotted the smudge stick balancing precariously on a wineglass set atop the cardboard box beside my bed, smoke curling from the dwindling bundle. My heart leaped as I snatched it and rushed to the kitchen sink. I dropped the smoldering herbs inside and turned on the faucet, extinguishing it.

Still shaking, I returned to the bedroom and stared at the small pile of ash beside the wineglass. On the cardboard Jesus Christ. I could have caused a fire. I could have burned down the entire fucking building. Why would I even leave the sage there in the first place?

I hadn’t, had I?

I tried to retrace my steps. After I turned off the livestream, I had carried the sage around the apartment, swirling the smoke in corners and generally acting like a loon. I had finished the bogus ritual in the bedroom; I remembered that. I also remembered setting the sage on the wineglass—momentarily—while I fielded a quick FaceTime from my mom, who’d wanted help deciding which shoes to wear to her book club.

But then I had picked it up.

Hadn’t I?

I was sure I had. I was sure I had picked it up and carried it back into the living room, stubbing it out in Granny Wanda’s ashtray.