Clara cut the daisies with scissors under the light of a torch. 

Carefully. Snip. Quietly. Snip. 

Across the lawn, the house sleeps. Bob is there, still in his meatworks clothes, snoring upon the bed. 

The Instagram video had said: Under the light of moon, or torch if you must, collect ten daisies. These will go into your potion. And for only $9.99, you can purchase the rest of the recipe via my Substack. 

Clara had found nine daisies. 

She pulls up her knees—child’s pose—and stabs the scissors to stand in dirt. She thinks of how she’d asked Bob to change before going to bed. How his eyes had crouched, widening into dark slits, piercing deep into the place of kept curses.

To escape the house, Clara had watched the video about twelve times. At first, the rewatching had nothing to do with the potion. She liked the content creator’s style: the mauve velvet background, the tortoiseshell cat that ducked in and out of view, the content creator’s long polished nails that went clickity-clack. They went clickity-clack on a benchtop, glass mixing bowl, kettle, teaspoon, amethyst crystal, lamp. But once they went clickity-clack on a tiny Buddha statue, Clara had had enough and went straight to the comments section to see if others had had enough too. 

That was when she saw it. 

One woman, called Mori_Tori, wrote: I can’t believe how good this is! I used to think these Insta potions were bullshit, but this is the real deal #femaleempowerment. Another user, called Big_Egg_Big_Life, wrote: You have honestly saved my relationship. Not with my man—of course!—but with myself. Never going back #witchytings. There were a couple negative reviews. One said that people needed to go to couples counseling. Another stated the content creator was also a real estate agent, and that this was clearly a grift. A weird comment suggested the clickity-clack nails were most likely a hypnosis technique used to induce spending, whatever that meant. 

Outside, the sky rumbles, little drops of rain dotting Clara’s back. She digs out her scissors. Just one more daisy for the potion. She’s already purchased the recipe online, and it expires in an hour.
 
Clara hurries, the shimmering sound of rain rushing in. “Fucking hell,” she says, wet fingers grasping, cold water hammering all around. “Oh, fucking hell,” she says again, rolling onto her back.

She squints up to the sky, as lines of rain charge down like heaven’s angels, blessing her body, the place of curses opening up, creatures coming out to dance in the night.