The sun was setting in the hills of Los Angeles as he took me in his arms, twirling me toward the center of his all-white living room as a reggaeton song reverberated throughout his residence. We have to stay quiet, he whispered to my best friend, M, and I, but all I could think of was how impossible it was to hide our presence when our typically reserved host, an acclaimed artist, was being uncharacteristically loud. A couple of curators from an east coast museum were staying in the guest house on his property, he explained earlier. Still twirling, I swerved away from his empty birdcage as M held up her iPhone, recording the moment so we could giggle about it later. I already pictured how I would edit the clips together in iMovie and what song I would dub in. I thought how each move I made, however brash, would look far more graceful in slow motion.

I smiled at M, who was uncontrollably laughing. In her opposite hand, she grasped the remote to his in-wall speakers, slyly turning up the volume as she recorded us. Then, throwing both the iPhone and remote onto his couch, she looped her arm around his as the three of us continued to dance late into the night. I envisaged what his guests would think if they made their way to his floor-to-ceiling windows, catching a glimpse of The Artist—who was in his late fifties—and two brunettes in their mid-twenties in patent leather Mary-Janes, scuffing up his concrete floors.

“Get down!” I shouted, touching the ground in front of The Artist, too inebriated by the music and the scene before me to be embarrassed. He held tightly to my hips, grinning. The Artist played along—he always did—and as the moon shone down on the house and our limbs began to give out, he expected us to play along with him, too. I knew what he was going to say before he even said it, because he hadn’t changed since we first met in 2017. The answer was going to be a firm thank you for your hospitality, but we’re not interested. Still, being in the presence of someone whose work I had seen in some of my favorite museums felt like a fun way to spend a weeknight. M and I were hungry for adventure, taking the phrase make your life a work of art far too seriously.

I looked at The Artist, admiring his hazel eyes and deep olive skin, the penetrating gaze that had led me from his online dating profile to his doorstep when I was twenty-one. We grabbed hands again, and this time, he held me close to him, so close I could smell the sweet amalgamation of spearmint and tequila on his breath. As we basked in the darkness, I caught a look of cool satisfaction on his face, a slightly sinister smirk. I was then reminded of how he had another name, one I only used behind his back. The Devil.

***

“I have something to tell you,” The Artist said during our second date five years earlier. We were reclining on a love seat in his art studio after several hours together, sharing a pitcher of an alcoholic beverage he said was a secret recipe. I sipped the drink as I waited for him to continue. Damn, this man is handsome, I thought, wondering how someone could be so talented, good-looking, and wealthy all at the same time. He paused. The room grew icy as his expression shifted. Weird. 

“What is it?” I said, shivering. I wondered if he was about to tell me he was married or had a violent past. Everything had been going so well—or at least as well as it could have been between a twenty-one-year-old and a man in his fifties.

“It’s bad,” he responded.

“What, have you killed a man?” I said incredulously.

“No, worse. Are you superstitious?” I moved my hand side-to-side. More or less. I was raised Catholic, but I considered myself agnostic. Truthfully, I preferred the all-encompassing spiritual label, just to ensure I wasn’t totally locked out of Heaven if it did exist.

He turned toward me. “When I was twelve, I was possessed by a demon.”

“What?” I giggled nervously.

“I had an exorcism. The priest said it didn’t work!” His smile did not reach his eyes as he laughed. My stomach turned as I stared at my empty glass, wondering if I had become an unwitting participant of some sort of ritual.

None of that stuff is real, I thought, but I wasn’t sure if I believed it. The problem was timing: I had met The Artist a few months after I started experimenting with the occult, particularly love magick, because I was inspired by the film The Love Witch. Did the universe do this to teach me a lesson? I tried to recollect how I last “cast a circle”—in other words, walked around in a circle to protect myself from any negative energy prior to spellwork. I considered whether I hadn’t sealed it off correctly. Crap. Maybe The Artist was a result of that.

We changed the subject, but the damage was done. This guy’s crazy! I made a mental note to text my friends. Or maybe I’m the crazy one for the small part of me that believes him. Even though The Artist was an enticing suitor, I figured it would be better to let the relationship fizzle out. My mother had said many times over the years to stop meeting strangers on the Internet, and now I knew why.  

The following afternoon, my phone lit up with a notification from one of my friends. Omg, the text read. --- IS HERE!!! HE’S SO HOT!

I scrolled up, only to find that while working, my friend had seen The Artist from afar attending an event taking place at an upscale mall. I had sent him pictures of The Artist’s dating profile weeks prior.

God, what are the chances?! I texted back. I stared at my phone and told myself it was a coincidence. I was not being pursued by The Devil himself, nor were my friends and family. I blocked The Artist’s phone number and tried to forget I had ever met him. I considered whether I was being superstitious. As an extra layer of protection, I stopped practicing magick.

***

In 2021, I moved out of the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, a man I had met the year after I dated The Artist, and soon after, we broke up. In having my own space, I found my way back to tarot and astrology, and then I started doing rituals again. I figured it would be healing to go back to who I had been before I experienced the challenges of a long-term love affair gone awry. To rekindle my relationship to the past, one evening, I decided to send drunk hope ur well texts to men I had dated when I was in my late teens and early twenties. I was morbidly curious about what had become of The Artist and unblocked his number.

Hope ur well…it’s a full moon, I texted The Artist, my wine glass brimming with a heavy pour of Tempranillo. I wondered what he would make of me contacting him after so many years. I placed my glass on my nightstand, sighing upon noticing the blood-red stain on the lacquered surface. My phone lit up almost immediately with a response.

Should we meet? was all it said. I lay down on my bed, holding my phone above my head.

Maybe, I responded, not convinced. I had only wanted to be entertained via text, to be validated after feeling invisible for so long. I wasn’t interested in a quick hook-up. I told him I was about to conduct a tarot ritual, curious if I would awaken a shared interest in the beyond since I never had a chance to tell him I practiced magick. When he continued to suggest a meet-up, I decided it would be harmless to string him along since I had no intention of fulfilling his request. Our conversation concluded after midnight.

The next day, I visited Los Angeles for a change from my suburban scenery. I walked down the boulevard, admiring the verdant foliage, wondering if I’d ever move back to the city one day. It had been fun to go to school in the valley and spend my late teens and early twenties in LA; maybe I wasn’t cut out for such a quaint, quiet existence. At twenty-five, working full-time and living in a town comprised of families and retirees, I sensed I was wasting what M had deemed our Hot Years. We’ll never be as young and hot as we are now, she used to say when we were in college. It was her version of the adage about only living once.

While window-shopping, I couldn’t shake the feeling of someone staring at me. Turning my head, I caught him in the corner of my eye as he raised his hand to wave. The Artist.

“Oh my God,” I said aloud, seeing him seated outside of a popular restaurant. I weakly waved back. The motion of his hand had been so subtle, so fleeting that I thought I had imagined it. When he waved, he didn’t even bother to make eye contact with me; I don’t even think the man sitting across from him noticed.

U will NEVER guess who I ran into, my fingers furiously typed as I walked toward my parked car. What are the chances? I haven’t seen or spoke to him in years!!! I sent the message to M, who was aware of my past romance with The Artist. AND it was a full moon last night, I continued, knowing M would understand given her own interest in magick. A light bulb went off in my mind—it could be a sign. Maybe we should both meet up with him, I texted, feeling impulsive. Might be entertaining. M agreed that it would. As long as I wasn’t alone, what was the worst that could happen?

***

Your friend is more than welcome to join us tonight, read a text from The Artist.

I picked M up from her apartment in Koreatown on a Tuesday night to go to The Artist’s house after months of off-and-on correspondence.

Weeks before, he met M for the first time at the opening of his art show, which happened to take place under a full moon. While outside of the crowded gallery that night, we conducted a brief candle ritual. To good fortune, we wished for, and entertainment. I was not attracted to The Artist in the same way I had been when I was twenty-one, or at least I thought, watching him work the room. M and I craved adventure; we wanted to have new experiences since we were both going through challenges in our respective love lives. The Artist was a perfect distraction.

On the way to his house, I blasted reggaeton from my car stereo as I navigated the winding streets, suddenly sick to my stomach with nervousness. My phone vibrated with a seemingly ominous text: Make sure you aren’t full.

“What are we doing?” I shouted to M over the music. “This is a huge mistake!” M told me to calm down, that this was just for fun. “He’s the DEVIL for crying out loud!” I said, half-serious.

I pulled up to the gate leading up to his house and pushed the call button on the entry box, feeling silly in my bright red Honda Civic that I’d had since I was eighteen as I looked at the oversized, perfectly manicured properties around me. “We’re here for ---,” I stammered.

“Come in,” The Artist said through the speaker. The gate slowly opened.

“Why did you say that?” M laughed.

“I don’t know,” I responded earnestly. I thought he might’ve had a housekeeper or a personal assistant, because that is how I imagined rich people lived. Somehow, he had become even wealthier and more successful since I first met him.

I wasn’t sure what to expect now that we were going to be alone with him after all those years. What would we talk about? The Artist had been so serious and academic when we saw him at his art opening, hardly acknowledging our presence even though he was the one to extend the invitation. M and I agreed that we could leave if we felt uncomfortable.

***

We were discussing his collection of books when our conversation grew awkward. A couple of hours of catching up led me to believe that The Artist was just lonely and wanted company, and I was relieved. Then, because we ran out of topics to discuss, he decided to translate one of his favorite books, which happened to be erotica, from a foreign language into English for my benefit since I was mostly monolingual. He read a passage aloud, pausing when he came across a word referring to a body part and translating it into a description a physician would have used. I made eye contact with M and held in my laughter with all my might.

This is the least sexy thing that’s ever happened to me, I thought, no longer nervous. The Artist couldn’t possibly be The Devil if we were laughing at him, though I couldn’t be too sure. I ignored the passing thought that he was more attractive than I remembered, catching myself admiring his cheekbones in the light and turning away when I realized I had been unconsciously seduced. I shifted on his couch as he flipped through the pages, looking for another passage to read.

“Can we listen to some music?” M said, her voice interrupting the silence. M was known for getting the party started, often asking Uber drivers for their auxiliary cord to connect her phone.

“Sure,” he responded. He handed M his phone, who typed in the name of our favorite artist, Tokischa.

“Dance with us,” I said as the bass echoed throughout the house. He started moving his hips in time with the rhythm. A dance with The Devil! We started clapping to the beat as his stony exterior transmogrified into an expression of pure delight.

***

The final time M and I saw The Artist was at his home again several months later. He told us he was dating someone, and I hoped we could potentially pursue a strictly platonic relationship. I had grown to enjoy The Artist as a person, no longer seeing him as someone who had been brought to me by my interest in the occult or a consequence of an erroneous ritual, but a source of entertainment, just as M and I had wished for. That said, I greatly disliked that there was always a provocative request at the conclusion of our get-togethers, a repayment for the fun we had with him. Last time we visited him, he had asked if he could paint us—rather, paint on us, our bodies, the canvas—to which M and I politely declined.

Tonight, he took us on a tour of his vast property, showing us the studio he recently built. In it was a stained-glass depiction of a biblical scene. 

“You know,” The Artist said, turning to M and me. “When I was young, I was possessed by a demon…” I studied M’s expression. She already knew the story, of course. She looked at him skeptically, her luxuriant eyebrows raised. Is this what he tells everyone?

We danced again, late into the night. Our encounter ended abruptly when he attempted to seduce us once more, and this time, the mood changed when we rejected him. As I watched this beautiful man sulk, I was reminded of the innumerable European B-movies I would watch with my mother as a child, in which the devil, incubi, and succubi were always wildly attractive and hell-bent (no pun intended) on seducing the protagonist and causing disruption. I did not recall a plotline in which any human-demon friendships flourished.

Witnessing his petulance, I knew I had finally grown out of him, and perhaps grown up. The truth was that I missed my boyfriend, and we were on the brink of rekindling our relationship. My search for entertainment via The Artist had proven empty, and I yearned to return to my “boring” life. M and I got into my car, sighing heavily, understanding that it was likely we’d never see him again. Though it was over, I secretly hoped he would contact us to dance with him once more, but he never did.

***

Later that year, I visited a museum that had some of The Artist’s work on display. Although it wasn’t my first time seeing it, I hadn’t fully taken in the dichotomy of beauty and horror in his art, and I considered how my own experience with him echoed that sentiment. Maybe, like The Devil tarot card, he represented a way for M and me to break free from the lack of fulfillment in our lives and reclaim our power, to exorcise the heartbreak from our bodies and temporarily give in to pleasure. Nowadays, I no longer think of him as The Devil, or the demon he claimed to be, but rather a fleeting force who enabled M and I to move forward, and in turn, move on.

After our last meeting, I stopped regularly practicing magick and settled into my existence in the suburbs, embracing peace over chaos, sitting on the sidelines versus centering myself on the dancefloor. Though he is a distant memory, M and I still talk about him—and I cannot help but see his face, or feel the ghost of his body against mine, whenever I hear a reggaeton song.