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I delete number four.

Then add:

4. Stairs are dangerous

Much better.

I shove my phone back into my purse.

In my defense, the assignment sounded much more profound when she sent it, but I have come to realize since then that I have, quite literally, spent hundreds of dollars for a person to tell me to go for a fucking walk.

Which yes, I’m bitter about. But I also spent nearly an hour last night looking for somewhere to do it.

The Moonlight Stroll appeared somewhere around search number six, and it felt sufficiently witchy to qualify. Full moon, a garden, glass art illuminated after dark. I bought the ticket before I could talk myself out of it.

And now I’m here. Alone, walking, not looking for signs.

Definitely not wondering if what flies overhead occasionally is some sort of omen.

I pass beneath a Japanese maple and nearly walk directly into a low branch, but manage to duck at the last second.

“Jesus.”

Maybe I am cursed generally. That would actually explain everything.

The garden is beautiful, even if I haven’t yet figured out how I’m supposed to experience it without turning the whole thing into homework. The glass installations are tucked among the trees and beside the pond, some of them delicate enough that I don’t see them until the light catches an edge. The air has finally cooled after last week’s bizarre October heat, and everything smells damp and green, the way Seattle is supposed to smell this time of year.

I try putting my phone away for real and decide to simply watch.

I make it approximately three minutes.

Then I notice Flora.

At least, I think it’s Flora.

She’s standing farther down the path near the edge of the water, half turned away from me, and for a second all I can see is dark hair and the profile of a woman studying one of the glass installations.

It could be anyone, of course, since we’re all doing the same thing. But my stomach does something stupid the moment she turns.

Oh.

Definitely Flora.

And apparently the universe has decided that seeing her behind a coffee counter wasn’t enough, because now I have to deal with her beneath strings of minuscule lights with the moon hanging over her shoulder.

This feels totally targeted and like the universe is giving me the largest fuck you of all time.

I take one step toward her and immediately skid on a patch of damp leaves.

My arms fly out, again, but somehow I manage not to fall, again, only because my hand lands against the trunk of a tree with enough force to sting.

Flora looks over at the disaster that is happening right next to her, and I have the wherewithal to hide my face.

There are probably a hundred people in this garden, and naturally the one person who witnesses this is the woman I was hoping might someday find me a little bit attractive enough to maybe kiss or something.

Her eyes widen. “Merryweather?”

I straighten. “Hi.”