Sexual Astrology – Epilogue – One Per Sign

I’m standing at the window of my apartment looking at my mother’s kitchen light.

This is my life now.

I am thirty years old, a registered nurse with a specialty in cardiac care and an unplanned minor in applied astrology, and I live directly across the street from my mother, which is either the most efficient or the most humiliating geographical arrangement I have ever made, depending on the day.

George is in the kitchen behind me. I can hear him. He’s making coffee at the wrong time of night, which is one of his habits, along with leaving cabinet doors open and being, by all available evidence, the most functional relationship I have ever been in, which is both gratifying and structurally inconvenient given the view.

You want to know his sign.

I know you do.

I’m not going to tell you, because I don’t know, because he won’t tell me, because on the evening we met he decided that his birthday was the 30th of February and has maintained this position for six months with a consistency I find either admirable or suspicious and have decided to find admirable.

The 30th of February. A date that does not exist. A sign that does not exist. A man I have deliberately not run through my system.

My mother, across the street, is probably reading someone’s chart right now. She would tell you this was inevitable. She would tell you that the universe has a sense of humor, which is the astrological way of saying I told you so while maintaining plausible deniability.

I would tell you that I am a nurse and I believe in science.

I would also tell you that I have now slept with twelve men in twelve months, one per sign, in sequential order, without planning any of it, which is either the most remarkable coincidence of my adult life or evidence for something I am still not ready to endorse.

This is the story of that year.

I am going to tell it to you honestly, which means I am going to tell you about the sex, because the sex is the data, and the data is the point.

Try to keep up.