Savannah pulled up one of the tall cards from the box and began reading the clues. Our dinner companions were getting a drink at the bar across the street and we had a good few minutes to sit on high bar stools in the cold as we waited for our table. At the third clue in the list, my morning connected with our evening and this reverse Tarot-like trivia — the book I had just started reading provided a page-long biography of the person listed on the card, for whom I had never heard of before.
“I just read about him this morning,” I told her, and flashed a brief, albeit unbridled amount of excitement at the coincidence, and wondered quietly over the coming hours if perhaps there was some more profane synchronicity to be gleaned.
I’d been a purveyor of synchronicities in the past — but my current pragmatism wanted to shut that radio station down, the censor of doubt reeling from the uncertain, unknown reaches of that beyond, and what would be more than trivial knowledge if I kept asking.