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served properly.”
    “Then serve her dinner, Cave Man.”
    I have a problem with deferred gratification, but learning graceful capitulation to the will of the Goddess is an essential milestone on the shamanic path. Or so I tell myself about my dealings with women, who were many before I met Jolene.
    “What shall I feed you, Goddess? What do you desire?”
    A satisfied giggle. “Let’s see…it’s too nice to be inside. Let’s go out.”
    “Picnic? Bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, and thou?”
    “No. Too buggy. Take me to…Lucia’s.”
    * * *
    We lingered over our early dinner, the seafood linguine special, and finished a fine bottle of Chardonnay before we went out for a stroll through Uptown.
    “Somewhere outside?” I said as we entered the parking lot.
    “Of course, love,” Jolene said. “Too early and too beautiful to be inside.”
    We took the long route through town, up north on Hennepin and across the bridge into the North East Art District. I found a parking spot around the corner from The Ginger Hop and escorted Jolene in. She staked out a banquette with a view of the street, crossed one immaculate white leg ending in impossibly strapped shoes, and set her purse on the table.
    “Macallan, sweet,” she said.
    I went to the bar. The bartender, Ness, a beautiful and wise beyond her years woman who was also of the Church of Jolene, nodded to me.
    “Hey, Marius, how you doing?” she said.
    “Ness. How’s it?”
    “Awesome. Let me guess…Macallan for Jo, Bushmills Green Label, neat with a shot glass of water on the side, for you?”
    “Is it wrong to be so predictable?”
    She smiled her gentle smile; she was the best bartender in town when it came to creating the hint of the confessional that only the best bartenders can do.
    “Good to have you back,” she said. “Haven’t seen either of you in too long.”
    I stuffed a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar as an act of contrition and carried our drinks to the table. Jolene smiled serenely at two young college boys who gawked at her. I nodded to them as I sat down our drinks.
    I don’t get jealous. It doesn’t pay to get possessive with an Avatar of the Goddess. She doesn’t tolerate even a hint of ownership.
    She picked up her Scotch, tilted the crystal in my direction, tasted it slowly and with full attention, eyes closed in utter satisfaction. I worship her ability to be silent. Don’t get me wrong, she can prattle about her favorite TV show ( Justified —she nursed a serious crush on Timothy Olyphant) or carry on a deep spiritual dialogue about our respective past lives in Atlantis. Her ability to hold peaceful silence is a gift that most couples never enjoy. She was happy to hold her space, sip her drink, and watch the world go by.
    I love that.
    It frees me up to sit and admire her, and to enjoy the men (and women) admiring her. She was all dolled up: devastating low cut little black dress, spiky-strappy expensive designer shoes, gleaming handcrafted silver earrings.
    Nothing else.
    At all.
    Just raw Goddess in all her power.
    I sipped my coffee and watched her watch me over the rim of her glass, how her lips left a crimson half-moon on the crystal edge.
    Lovely.
    The traffic was light outside. I noticed one car slowing as it passed us, as though the driver were looking for a parking spot. A fleeting impression of the driver: bulky, hair cropped close to a squarish head, pale skin, eyes black slashes above the turned up collars of a leather jacket…
    A sudden chill.
    My eyes narrowed. I leaned forward and set my drink down.
    He passed.
    Jolene noticed me noticing the driver. “Someone you know?”
    “Not in this life.”
    She’s a Wiccan High Priestess. She understands that. “Human?”
    “I’m not sure.”
    “What have you been into, Marius? Are you drawing something in?”
    “There’s something I feel coming…”
    She closed her eyes.
    So did I.
    With my shamanic vision I saw First In Front standing beside us, war paint on