Cassandra can see the future in the pale band around his darkly tanned ring finger and the heat that beams from his heavy-lidded eyes. He sits at the end of the bar sipping Scotch, his muscular frame drawing torrid glances like honey draws flies. A little voice inside her skull will not stop shrieking. Danger, danger, danger. Not yours, not yours, not yours. She winks at him anyway.
Two days ago, Cassandra had a vision of her boyfriend Gordon, a jovial moose of a man, plunging through the ice, thrashing wildly, and then falling still. It had the resonance of impending truth, the quality of prophecy. Warn him, said the little voice. Warn him.
She begged him not to play hockey on the frozen river. She pleaded with him to stay home and watch a movie instead. But he laughed and brushed her aside, convinced of his immortality. “Cassie,” he said, smirking, “you sound like you’re off your meds.” She flushed. She really had gone off her meds. It’s how she lost the ten pounds he said she needed to drop.
She let him leave her apartment without another word. And now she is drowning in guilt, composing his obituary, and preparing to punish herself with a fresh new man.
To be continued.