"If I was correct to choose you, then you would be hard-pressed not to help me win," his reflection says, still in a lounge-singer purr. The surface of the mirror feels like gauze or cotton candy, and his hand will sink in, slightly: a portal, more than a divination.
He's learned the Rider-Waite definitions floating around by now. Love, relationships - otherworldliness seemed a bit on the nose.
"I, uh. Suppose that depends on what you wanna win, huh. The last time me and any family met something that was capable of pulling one of us out of our universe, he was kind of an asshole."
And with his hand still on the apparently-not-glass, he pushes gently, seeing if his hand doesn't go through.
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"I, uh. Suppose that depends on what you wanna win, huh. The last time me and any family met something that was capable of pulling one of us out of our universe, he was kind of an asshole."
And with his hand still on the apparently-not-glass, he pushes gently, seeing if his hand doesn't go through.