OMENS

Melody saw omens in everything. A spider crawling across the windshield, a withered flower swept out from under the refrigerator, an unsullied grain of rice in her curry. She received these little messages a few times a day, direct from the universe, warning her of danger or signaling her of good fortune, depending on whatever mood she was in.

It pissed me off sometimes. She sliced her finger open on the lid of a tin can and a drop of blood got into the cream of mushroom soup, beading on the surface at first, then popping like a bubble and infusing the gray chunkiness with a sickly pinkish color, like salmonella. That little vision got my driving privileges revoked for an entire week. I had to walk to work (5 miles across two bridges and up three hills) until she felt the bad vibes had passed. I asked if she had any idea when that might be.

Dunno, she said, the universe has a way of balancing itself out. Could be a day, could be ten years.

Do you think the universe would take issue with me riding my bike?

I wouldn’t if I were you. You’ll get wind all in your channels. It’ll stagnate your chi and you’ll throw your back out again.

I sighed and said okay, muttering bullshit.

I was backing down to these ridiculous orders a lot lately, and whenever it happened I’d imagine an open hand in the darkness. The middle finger would cross behind the forefinger and bend it back slightly, creating an upright oval. Secret sign language my high school friends and I had developed for the word pussy. Go home early to study, you get a deadpanned upright oval. Ask for a glass of water instead of a beer, upright oval. Let your lady tell you what to do, two massive upright ovals floating all up and around your face.

Regardless of wind that may or may not have occupied my channels, I still threw my back out. Which is liable to happen when you’re walking five miles everyday with a messenger bag that weighs more than all the collected chi in China.

She told me to hop up on the table when I came home, my back all tangled up like an extension chord.

Okay, I said, just don’t stick any goddamn needles in me.

Sometimes she gave me this look like her leg was caught in a bear trap and she was weighing her options. Stay stuck, or gnaw it off?

We’d been dating for almost four months—the time in a relationship where a man starts to realize it’s easier to agree with everything his woman says. I’d ask myself if I’d rather get into another three-hour argument over why I think her chosen profession of acupuncture and traditional Chinese medicine is bullshit, or if I’d rather just shut up and accept the treatment.

She unrolled a long sheet of tissue paper over the table. I laid down on my stomach and nestled my face in the padded opening.

Have you been experiencing any heart palpitations or irregular breathing, she said, like a mechanic asking if I’d heard any weird sounds coming from the engine.

No, I mumbled through the face hole.

She swabbed my temples with cotton ball. The smell of rubbing alcohol stung the back of my throat. She swabbed around my shoulder muscles, down my spine, then rolled my pant legs up and swabbed the muscles abutting my shinbones.

Can you just give me a massage?

You want your slippers too, she asked, or maybe some hot cocoa? How bout a hand job while we’re at it?

Then she told me to take a deep breath.

I did.

Aaaand let it out. Then the sound of a pen clicking, the sound of a small wire coil dragging along the edge of a tube and the feeling of a needle slipping into your back.

Hmm, she said, that’s strange.

What’s strange?

You don’t usually bleed his much.

I shifted on the table, the paper making sounds of fireworks in the distance.

Must be a sign, she said. We probably shouldn’t have sex tonight.

I said that was bullshit and a little string of drool escaped through the hole and onto the hardwood floors.

Seriously, she said. Blood can symbolize fertility.

Maybe it means you’re starting your period.

Or maybe it means I started ovulating.

You could count the days since your last period.

Best not to take a chance, she said. Pen click, wire coil, needle in my outer palm.

I sighed. I thought about how much you can let a person change you. One day you’re eating cold pizza chiseled off a cardboard square excavated from the dungeons of your refrigerator, the next you’re sauteeing bok choi in a wok with a cranberry vinegar reduction.

Pen click, wire coil, needle in the back of my neck.

One minute you’re receiving a rim job that bends the outer edges of time and space, the next you’re letting a little spot of blood get in the way of some boring, mid-week, missionary style you’ve been looking forward to since Sunday.

And then I imagined a middle finger bending an index finger back slightly, creating the shape of an upright oval. She told me to take a deep breath. Then I heard a pen click, the sound of a wire coil dragging across the edge of a cylinder and I felt a tiny needle bore into my temple.