Free Scryer by Sinden West

been a pastor having a homosexual affair with a seventeen-year-old male
prostitute. Illicit photographs were emailed to every member of his
conservative congregation, and his wife lost their unborn child not long after.
I tried to avoid the news after that — otherwise the guilt would have driven me
crazy. I started to drink a hell of a lot more, as well.
    It was not long after that episode that
I met Lake. There was a park not far from Magdalena’s house that bordered the
river. It had become customary for me to sit on a bench shadowed by a tree and
just stare at the water passing by me each evening after work. I would stay
until the light faded and left everything gray. Then from my purse I would pluck
the silver hip flask that had once belonged to my mother and lift it to my lips
and force foul-tasting liquor down my throat until a lovely invincible feeling came
over me. It was odd that I would keep something so shiny and reflective, but it
was like a punishment each time I drank from it, enhancing my self-loathing.
    That day, when the world around me became
deserted by others rushing home to loved ones, I took out the flask. It was
only as I took the first swig that I heard the voice.
    “Care to share?”
    I choked in surprise. The flask fell to
the grass as I gave great heaving coughs, covering my mouth as my eyes watered.
The interloper sat next to me like he owned the goddamned place. My first
impression, through teary eyes, was to be struck by his good looks. It was rare
to find someone perfectly formed…and so miserable looking.
    His hands had been thrust into the
pockets of his long winter coat, and he pulled one free and let it endure the
cold in order to retrieve my flask. He held it up, inspecting it. It was a
valuable piece of silver, that much I knew, and he paused to read the mark
before giving a slight nod of admiration and drinking deeply. My first instinct
was to snatch it back; I wanted to drink all of it and had no desire to share.
But then it hit me that my affair with alcohol was, perhaps, slightly out of
control and to act like that would confirm that I was well over the edge.
    So instead I watched him arch his
graceful neck as the silver touched his delicate lips, and he took a long
drink. Beneath his expensive open coat, he wore what looked like a t-shirt and
jeans paired with sneakers. It was a strange combination—a corporate style coat
with casual clothes, as if he were trying to be two different people. And the
casual attempt didn’t fit. His looks were too intense, his face too perfectly formed,
and his eyes were old. Those eyes…they reflected how I felt, or maybe it was
the alcohol in my system, but right at that moment it was like there was a
reflection in those eyes that didn’t fit with the young face, and in them, all
I saw was me.
    When he had his fill, he passed it back
to me, and I took it silently, snapping out of my fanciful and ridiculous
thoughts.
    “So,” he said as he replaced his hands
back into the warmth of his coat pockets. “What’s your misery?”
    His voice was smooth and had the accent
of someone who was well-traveled and privileged. It was the kind of voice that
made you sit up and pay attention.
    “What makes you think that I’m
miserable?” It was hard to keep my voice even. I didn’t know what it was,
whether it was his looks or his air of confidence, that attracted me, but all
of a sudden I felt stupid, just like all those girls that I had been to school
and college with who had fawned over men to such an extent that every clever
brain cell in their head had drained.
    His pretty lips twisted into a slight
smile. “You’re drinking out here alone in the cold. That doesn’t spell happy.
That spells someone who’s about to throw herself into the river.” He didn’t say
this like he cared, more like he was just stating fact.
    “I wasn’t.”
    He gave a shrug. “It’s of no consequence
to me what you do. I just didn’t want you to waste good