Arabella was late. As usual.  

She quickly read over her last email before shutting down her laptop, popping it into her purse, and heading out of her office in the Financial District of San Francisco. Arabella wasn’t in finance, but her office building was located on a crooked little alley in the heart of its epicenter.  

Stepping out from under the awning of her building’s doorway, she quickly made a right and then a left toward market street. At her bus stop, she stepped to the side. The smell of stale beer from the bar at the corner of the street was making her feel nauseated.

She really felt that, as a witch, she should be able to use her powers to transport herself where she needed to be, when she needed to be there. Unfortunately, the coven (and generations of witches—at least the ones in power—did not seem to feel the same way). Powers should only be used to benefit the fate of the Earth. Of course, a blind eye was often turned when one of the sisters cursed a particularly heinous ex-boyfriend, but that was different. 

The 5 Muni bus came rumbling up the street, pulling to a halt in front of her. She pushed the button to open the back door and stepped inside. Taking a seat facing the exact direction she had just come from, she stared out the window toward the bar outside. The sun hit the stains on the glass pane, highlighting them in streaky lines.

Headphones in. Podcast on.

Arabella was listening contentedly to a young couple interviewing a doctor about water fasting and adding certain herbs into the mass population’s diets. She loved functional medicine because so much of it stemmed from magic. The same magic she and her sisters used. The same magic that had been used for centuries and centuries before them. The magic of the Earth.

 Then, the bus came to a jolting halt at one of its many stops. Looking down at her phone, Arabella realized just how late she was actually going to be. The High Priestess was not going to like this. The young witch sighed.

 And as she let out her breath, a large boot thrust itself in between the bus’ closing doors. The boot was followed by a man in loose striped pants and an oversized, stained gray T-shirt. His hair looked like it could use a wash and he smelled vaguely of cannabis—an herb that was quite familiar to witches (and to just about every Bay Area native).

 Of course, witches used Marijuana to open their minds to the energy that moved throughout the land so that they could get in touch with the rhythms and find ways to harmonize those moving parts.

 Humans just got high.

 The young man sat down opposite Arabella and she made sure not to look at him.

 But she noticed, as the bus rumbled forward, that he was rummaging around in the backpack that he’d carried with him. From within the bag, he withdrew a carton of oat milk.

 Well if that’s not the most San Francisco thing you’ve ever seen… thought Arabella.

 She watched in horror as the man then proceeded to clumsily open the carton, bring it to his lips, and begin to chug the milky white liquid. It didn’t all make it into his mouth. Tendrils of mucous-like milk slid down his chin.

 It was enough to make her want to hex him right then and there. But she didn’t. Her hexes never worked out well.

 She looked down at her phone and pretended to pick a song from the green Spotify app, but really, she couldn’t concentrate on her selection as the man chugged oat milk across from her. It was like one of those train wreck situations. Once you’d started watching, there was no stopping—even though you really wanted to.

Finally, the man stopped gulping down the beverage and brought the carton down from his mouth.

 He held the carton in his hands for a moment and then carefully set it down on the seat next to him.

 A few moments later, the bus stopped at yet another stop. A small group of people got on. They separated into two even smaller groups, some going toward the front of the bus and others moving toward the back where Arabella and the oat milk man sat.

The man’s red eyes narrowed as the other passengers drew near. He stuck out his hand protectively over the milk.

 “You can’t sit here!” he yelled at a young college student who was walking past him to the back seats, “this seat’s for my milk.”

 The student ignored him. Perfectly comfortable in the city she had chosen to further her education in. Music pumped from headphones hanging cordlessly from her ears. A crooning voice on top of an electronic beat.

Still wary of everyone who had just entered the bus, the man across from Arabella held the Oat milk on the seat next to him with a fatherly hand.

Seriously, get me off this bus, Arabella thought.

Her stop came a few moments later. She got up and did not look at the man across from her, though she did wonder what would happen if the oat milk slipped from its seat and onto the floor. No, she thought, there’s no time for that.

Stepping off the bus, she walked down the road to where a church stood. Young people were just leaving. On Tuesdays, the church held a yoga service and the twenty-somethings of San Francisco flocked to chant and stretch in the echoing halls.

It’s also where the coven liked to convene. After all, nothing draws you to the house of god like being called a Satan worshipper.

Up the steps and in through the arched doors, past legging clad women and men who chatted happily amongst themselves, she walked.

Arabella stopped to light a candle. She almost said a prayer just for the fun of it, but stopped herself. Prayers only worked if you believed in them, and she didn’t.

Then she made her way up to the alter.

She walked around the draped table she stared up at the large cross which hung dramatically from above. She gave the gaudy-looking thing a nod. She’d always liked the thought of Jesus and had always wondered if he’d simply been a warlock. Of course, if he’d been a warlock, all of that self-sacrifice would have been pretty phony. Warlocks really only cared about one thing: themselves.

She wasn’t bitter or anything. She’d just dated too many of them to think otherwise.

 Now, standing facing the vertical wood paneling of the church’s back wall, she slipped her fingers through the nearly invisible space between each varnished panel. Well, she didn’t exactly slip them through. Rather, she put her fingers where the creases occurred and the walls just kind of opened for her.

 Then she stepped through before anyone from the church staff (or any lingering yogis) saw her.

 On the other side of the wall, was a circle of women sitting on foldable chairs. They sat in a circle facing each other and each witch held a section of a large wreath made from woven branches that reflected the season. As it was spring, this wreath featured a bright splattering of wildflowers.

 “Arabella,” the High Priestess’ voice rang out like a meditation bell, “you’re late.”

“Um,” Arabella began sheepishly, “yes. Well, I left the office on time. I mean, almost on time, but I had this one last email to send and it really needed to go out today and then I got on the 5 and this guy got on and he was super high and drinking oat milk and it was totally gross and I just…”

“Oat milk?” Asked Suzanna, “is that a thing now?”

“Yes,” said Genvieve, “the Swedes have made it popular with the humans recently.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, right? No more almond milk. More bees. Makes our lives easier,” the scratchy voice of Rachael responded.

“I think I can feel my powers growing stronger already,” said the dreamy voice of Listra.

“Oh, shut up, Listra. You would have felt your powers growing before Arabella told us about the guy with the oat milk. It’s been a thing for months now,” argued Megathreon (Megan for those who wanted to remain un-cursed. Megan hated her given name).

 “That’s what I meant,” replied Listra in the same lilting tone, “I’ve been feeling it.” 

“Alright,” said the High Priestess, “we can discuss the popularity of oat milk in our #improvements Slack channel. We’ve got other items on the agenda for this meeting. Arabella, take your seat.” 

And the young witch did. And the meeting began. And all was normal.