Of Lorenz Theory & Love

She-Shed & Sauvignon

3 She-Shed & Sauvignon

10 am, Vera Manor Garden, Seattle, Washington

Macy, after returning from her nightly adventure and getting somewhat adequate sleep, decided it was high time she created a she-shed from the garden shed sitting in the Vera Manor back garden.

To numb her feelings, and all, she thought to herself. That way, she could have a feminist, girly, soothing, Harry-free space to breathe and think and do all manner of things (which, if she was honest with herself, likely involved fantasizing about every single sensitive body part of the aforementioned whitelighter, and/or reading dirty Reddit threads or the like). Perhaps it involved hatha yoga and wine tasting—she hadn't decided for sure yet. Could it, months from now, double as a Command Center? Or if not, a Command Post? These thoughts swirled around in Macy's mind.

She had recently found a way to clone Vivienne's genetic analysis machine and currently kept it stashed away in the shed, and she secreted a few pillows and a fluffy white rug from her own bedroom to cozy up the place. To be honest, there wasn't really anything inside it to begin with—it was, when she had come upon it awhile ago, as if it was a blank, tabula rasa slate meant for Macy's sole, exclusive design. There was, when you entered the shed, a sense that the inside was far larger than the outside revealed. There was a simple-but-solid wood desk and chair, Macy's pillows, and the machine that whirred softly each time samples were to be placed within, much like a sewing machine of decades past, Macy mused to herself. Macy purposefully chose not to clean the dark-tinted and possibly rusted-over shed windows and window fixtures, believing that she really did need a bit of privacy, having two sisters and a man who could orb wherever he damn well pleased.

Macy knew that Mel, Maggie, and Harry were away in Puerto Rico wrestling a hybrid as-yet-undetermined feline Chupacabra off of an elderly witch's face, so there was no hurry at all; she had stayed behind to do a DNA analysis of said Chupacabra in the Command Center, but as soon as the trio were gone, she returned to her she-shed and performed the DNA analysis there instead, in the warm and comfort of the verdant garden atmosphere. With a beep, 45 minutes later, the genetic sequencing was complete; the hybrid matched the DNA profile of the F. silvestris lybica species—the African wildcat. And given that the fur had been white, according to Mel's frenetic texts, likely albino. Macy texted the sequencing results via group chat to Mel, Maggie, and Harry, and added "Chuc likes goats."

1 pm, Jordan's gym, Seattle, Washington

Harry waved to Jordan through the gym's doors, pretending to be casual in his slate-colored slacks and cerulean suit shirt—and failing miserably. Jordan, who had been in the middle of teaching introductory self-defense to a pair of middle-aged women, excused himself and strode toward Harry, who was waiting just outside.

"'Sup man, how's life?" Jordan briefly shook Harry's hand.

"I need your advice," Harry muttered.

"That bad, huh?" Jordan ushered him toward the stairs and they proceeded down to the café, where each ordered a hot drink.

Once they were seated, Harry remarked, somewhat half-heartedly, "I have no blasted idea what I'm doing—and I don't want to get close to her in case I hurt her."

Always zen-like, Jordan stated, "Love don't come easy—Phil Collins—couldn't resist," looking at Harry's expression. "C'mon, did anyone ever in the history of mankind ever really know what they were doing? Half the time we make things up as we go along—and do the best we can with who we love, whether we have five years, ten, or twenty-five"—as he gave Harry a pointed look, "years."

"True," Harry nodded in agreement. "But what if, in your quest to protect someone, to avoid hurting that one, you hurt her instead, without meaning to?"

"I wouldn't overthink this," responded Jordan. "If you've done her wrong, man up and apologize. If you love her, go to her side and woo the hell outta her. If you're worried about hurting her—women are stronger than we give them credit. It's not complicated, man."

Harry sighed. "But is it too late?"

"Only if you think it is," Jordan said. "And recalling that time pre-morgue when you made me temporarily dead—there's always a balance, a sweet spot, remember?"

Harry sipped his Earl Grey tea and mused over his thoughts a bit more. "But how on earth do I woo her?"

"Dude, that's entirely up to you," Jordan slyly grinned. "Gotta go, my students are waiting."

8-10 pm, Vera Manor, Seattle, Washington

Harry was in the wine cellar, trying to pick out a vintage number that would "woo the hell outta" Macy. He had no idea where to start, but he did remember her at dinner nearly a fortnight ago, remarking that there was a chocolate wine that sounded particularly intriguing, comprised of a French cabernet sauvignon, Holland cream, cacao, and maybe the addition of bitters and cinnamon (depending how adventurous one was). It had been six decades since his first marriage (philandering husband), maybe a year or so since Charity (a fling?), a month since the whole Abigael debacle (highly regrettable), and he still had no earthly idea of how to be a gentleman worthy of a second date.

Having found the requisite cabernet and the cream, cacao, bitters, and cinnamon, Harry retreated to the kitchen for a bit of brew-making. He could hear Mel and Maggie laughing on the sofa, munching on popcorn and M&Ms, watching the aughts-era Charmed of yore, which they evidently found immensely therapeutic after the whole "Chucky the Chupacabra" incident earlier this morning.

Harry wasn't surprised that Macy wasn't watching the series alongside Mel and Maggie; she often quietly retreated into her bedroom for journaling, to the garden to dance to Arlissa, or to garden (he had seen her tinkering about the clay pots behind the shed). He could've sworn he saw her marking the outside corner of the shed with Arlissa's lyrics "99 good things just 1 bad" in silvery ink, or perhaps that was his imagination—he could never be quite sure with the Vera/Vaughn ladies just what they were up to.

10 pm, Macy's bedroom

Harry knocked on Macy's bedroom with the canistered chocolate wine and glass flutes, for a peace offering of sorts. He thought this might be a potential step in a promising direction—maybe. However, after a couple minutes of knocking, then a hesitant opening of the door, Macy was nowhere to be found. And he knew that she had last retired there, and she had not gained the gift of wingless flight anytime recently. Where then, had she gone?! Harry reflected it was entirely possible she hopped over to the Command Center and could have gone to an international locale, but realized he hadn't had a single discussion yet of the places she loved and longed to visit, and at this moment, sorely wished he had, if only to find her, and let her love him, in whatever way they each knew how.

Harry rifled through Macy's desk area, her crystals, and a world map. His scrying skill led him to believe she was on 37.7412° N, 25.6756° W, and her journal, dated to a few hours ago, had one word.

"Azores."