Dear Wigleaf,

Fully vaccinated, lockdown lifted, I went to my local cafe with my local banshee. I'd been avoiding her since our art school graduation because she'd been sending me increasingly dramatic text messages about fog and bogs and bodies perfectly preserved for one thousand years. By the end of winter, the snag of guilt she'd caught in my soul ripped wide enough that I bought her an oat milk latte.

"I got a new tattoo," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Here." She pulled her gray cloak aside and revealed a dotted line on her collarbone with a pair of scissors angled meanly towards her neck.

"Rock and roll," I said, even though the sight made me queasy.

The barista swirled pictures in our latte foam — harder to do if it wasn't real milk. Mine looked like Munch's The Scream, a face — like her face — pulled downwards in anguish. It reminded me of her pre-pandemic canvases: swirls of darkness, noble skulls, and the wet whistling of wind on moss.

"I'm thinking of taking a vacation," I said.

"Cool, where?"

"Somewhere sunny and quiet. I want to feel dawn on my face, hear the wings of happy birds, and watch the flowers grow."

"Well, just to be safe," she said, "take this with you."

I sat helpless as she opened her banshee mouth wide and coated my body with her keening. A black wailing thick as tar.

All the best,

— Deirdre