Most people were alone, so there wasn’t much chatter aside from the receptionist’s hushed voice as she answered the ringing phone.

I rested my head on Jack’s shoulder and shut my eyes, thinking of blood, of bodies, and of magic.

I straightened and scooted over, leaving an empty seat between us.

“Wanna see a trick?” I asked, pulling a deck of cards out of my purse.

“Sure.” Jack grinned.

I cut the deck. A woman wearing an orange sweater covered in pictures of cats shot me a look, as if to say this is not a place to play. I maintained eye contact as I shuffled until she backed down.

“Pick a card, any card,” I said in my best announcer’s voice.

Carefully, Jack selected one, eyeing me to make sure I wasn’t peeking. I separated the deck into three piles on the chair between us.

“Place your card on top of one of the piles, please, sir.”

He placed it on the middle stack. I began counting, laying them into more piles. Then, I reassembled the deck.

“Is this your card?” I asked, fully aware that it was not.

“No.” His eyebrow cocked, assuming I had messed up.

“Oh, shoot. Can you tell me your card?”

“It was the queen of hearts.”

“Okay. I’m going to spell it out for you.”

“Q.” I flipped a card, placing it face-up.

“U.” A second card.

“E.” A third card. All the while counting in my head.

I turned the cards until I reached the last letter: “S.” Flipping the final card, there it was: the queen of hearts.

“Aw, cute,” he said.

“Jack?” The nurse called from the doorway.

Jack stood and I followed, sliding the deck into my purse and grabbing his arm. The red-haired man glanced up from his magazine, smiling at me. I smiled sweetly.

“Can we go in together?” Jack asked.

“Sure,” the nurse agreed, turning for us to follow.

She pulled back a curtain, revealing chairs and empty blood bags hanging from hooks attached to moveable poles.

Jack and I sat side by side as the nurse pressed her index and middle finger into my forearm, trying to locate a vein.

“Can you make a fist for me, please?” she asked.

“Sure.” I clenched my fingers into my palm. “My veins are small, people usually have trouble finding them.”

The nurse cleansed the area with an antiseptic wipe, the clinical scent hitting my nostrils. I watched closely as the needle pierced my skin. A slight pinch, a sharp inhale, and that was it.

I’ve always loved needles. Even as a kid at school, when it came time for us to have our shots, while all the other children cried and feared the nurse, I excitedly offered to go first, staring as the metal tip entered me. I felt a sense of exhilaration, letting a stranger inside my body.

“This will take about ten minutes,” she explained.

Jack took out his phone, passing me an earbud, and pressing the other into his ear. We listened to The Cranberries as the clear bags that hung overhead slowly turned red, our free hands joined. I thought about growing old with Jack, and how I might have to watch him die, lying in a hospital bed hooked up to machinery, his skin sagging, his eyes clearing in preparation for the transition. A lump formed in my throat and I swallowed, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from falling.