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Lavender and peppermint. Mixed in harmony, those scents had become synonymous with Wednesdays, and therefore with her. So lovely, her dark lips and raven hair, her cool grey eyes. Every week for three months now she had drifted in, a walking sensation of fluttering fabrics and good energy, you were sure. Paula Cracker.
You had met her at a record shop during one of your scheduled outings. Murdoc had excused himself to inquire about the latest Nazareth album, leaving you to your own devices in Synthpop N-Z. She had bumped into you - quite literally - as you stood zoned out in front of the stack of S titles; a million miles in space with a headache coming on. You had jumped in shock at her impact, smacking her nearly finished coffee from her hands to the floor and splattering her black buckle boots in the process. You’d sputtered apologies, your hands shaking uncontrollably as she surveyed the damage, but she assured you it wasn’t that bad; she had napkins in her purse, and anyway the boots were from the charity shop so it wasn’t too great a deal.
“Are you alright?” she’d asked, her brow furrowing with concern. You shook your head.
“Migraine,” you said softly. To your surprise, her face lit up at your response.
“Oh, I’ve got stuff for that!” she said happily, rummaging through her purse. You shook your head again in protest, raising your hands in front of yourself and biting your lip.
“Oh no, I mean, that’s very nice of you - but I can’t take my own pills!”
She looked up at you and laughed, pulling a small bottle from her bag and smiling up at you. “It ain’t pills, love, it’s peppermint!” she said, showing you the bottle proudly. “Peppermint oil. It’s great for headaches; it’s natural. Would you like to try some?”
You studied the bottle in curiosity, fingers fidgeting. “Is it ingestible?”
“No, topical. You put a little dab on your temples, usually. The smell calms everything right down. Would you like some?”
You thought about it for a moment, still a bit unsure. But when another wave of pain hit you and you remembered how long it would be before your next dose of painkillers, you quickly gave in. “I guess so. If you’re offering, I mean…”
No sooner had you finished speaking than you watched as she unscrewed the cap and covered the tip of one manicured finger with oil; gently tracing it into the skin of your temples, forehead, and - after some consideration - your wrists. The smell was intoxicating and strong. You felt anointed. She told you she was a practicing witch and so she always had a cure or two in her bag, just in case. Her casual demeanor put you at ease and you thanked her for her help, complimenting her on her choice of record: the latest Nirvana. You talked about music for the next few minutes before she had to head home, but she offered you a card and her number before leaving.
“Just in case you want more oils. Or a reading,” she said, smiling. You nodded with a smile as she left. You were completely enchanted. Murdoc found you blank faced and starry eyed a few minutes later and asked you why you smelled so funny, but the most you could do was hand him the card. He laughed when he saw it, but you stuffed it in your pocket just the same. Within a week you and her had met for tea at least twice, and she put your mind at ease with reassurance of your future and homeopathic advice. After your fifth reading, Murdoc finally tagged along, skeptical and guarded. But even amongst his whip-smart remarks and undertoned grousing, you felt something haltingly click between the three of you. On the ride back home, Murdoc had offered a fairly positive assessment of Paula’s character, although he still held his right to make reservations in the future. You conceded, asserting in turn your own right to continue seeing her. An agreement was reached. Somehow, she began finding herself in the Stafford flat the two of you shared.
It had taken Murdoc some time to grow accustomed to sharing you with someone else, but he couldn’t help but give in when he saw how happy you were. At the very least, you suspected that he appreciated your reduced pharmaceutical intake; he had seemed more capable of relaxing when the topic of your daily cocktail of medicine came up in conversation. Most of all, you knew he was fascinated and intrigued by the magic, although he would never admit it. But you saw the way his body perked up when she spoke of spells and crystals and cards, spirits and the ether. He did a poor job of hiding his curiosity. And though he had scoffed when she had offered to give him a reading; pulling The Nine of Swords, The Moon, and The Lovers on him consecutively, you had seen the flush under his dark skin at the insights. You knew better than to ask just what they had meant to him.
The day Paula brought her guitar along was the day all the pieces seemed to find their place. An impromptu jam session took place on the living room floor. Never one to shy away from a chance to show off his bass, Murdoc had quickly brought El Diablo in and offered a deep, resounding foundation for your and Paula’s vocals and music. You found your rhythm together with surprisingly little effort and played well into the night, not stopping until you had worked your way through a six pack of beers and a few stern noise complaints from your neighbours. Just like that, Paula was in.
She started coming by more often throughout the week, and your Saturday evenings were marked with popcorn and terrible B-Movie flicks. The three of you would make your way into the living room in a bit of a heap, and soon you found yourself in a near perpetual state of being sandwiched in between the two of them, with Murdoc’s arm around your shoulders and Paula’s legs draped over you own. You would squeeze Murdoc’s hand when you felt his spine stiffen during the scary parts, and Paula would share chocolates with you and laugh at the shoddy gore and visual effects. She would drive herself home after midnight and offer you a kiss on the cheek, and you and Murdoc would go to bed together in his room, intertwined and warm and safe. But on nights when Murdoc worked later, or visited with his aunt, the space beside you in your bed felt hugely empty. And the night Paula first fell asleep on the couch with her head in your lap after drinks that had gotten a bit out of hand; and you felt the heat of her breath on your hands and saw the way she smiled in her sleep, you knew you wanted her to stay.
Murdoc knew it too. He made the proposition himself over coffee one morning, cigarette in hand and eyes on his battered copy of the Satanic Bible.
“Not forever, mind you, but I’m saying we could try it,” he said quietly. You nearly spilled your tea in your excitement, diving from your seat into his space and wrapping your arms around him, making him laugh. “Calm down, kid! Fucking hell!” But he was beaming when he said it.
Paula stayed over the next weekend, on the couch to start. And the week after that, and the week after that. The sixth time she stayed, you invited her into your room; and the first time you shared your bed with her, your bodies meshed together in a way you had never felt before. As though that was where she had always belonged...
It made you - all three of you - happy as you’d ever been.