The sage was the easiest part.
This was because I discovered that certain online retailers sold sage in bulk, presumably for people who either owned very large properties or were conducting rituals that required the temporary sterilization of an entire neighborhood.
The difficulty was the quantity.
When I telephoned a local herbal shop, a woman answered and asked how she could help me.
“I need sage.”
“Of course. How much?”
I looked at the revised spreadsheet.
“Two hundred and eighty-eight bunches.”
There was a pause.
“I'm sorry?”
“Two hundred and eighty-eight.”
“Are you opening a store?”
“No.”
“Are you conducting a large event?”
“Not exactly.”
“What sort of event?”
I considered telling her the truth. I considered lying. I considered asking whether she sold rope and whether it was possible to use it to restrain a Sagittarius without causing permanent injury.
“My boyfriend is having a spiritual emergency.”
Another pause.
“I see.”
She did not see. Nobody saw. That was the problem.
She could obtain thirty bunches by Friday.
I thanked her and added nine more suppliers to the spreadsheet.
The crystals were worse. Akira had specified aquamarine, but not a grade, size, or acceptable degree of geological imperfection.
I sent him photographs of three options.
He rejected all three.
“The first has an unstable aura.”
“It's a rock.”
“The second is too cloudy.”
“It's a rock with inclusions.”
“The third is spiritually unbalanced.”
“It's a rock with a crack.”
He looked at me.
“Why do you insist on reducing everything to its physical properties?”
“Because the website sells them by the physical properties.”
Eventually, he approved a collection of forty-five small aquamarines from a seller who apparently specialized in ethically sourced minerals. I added the shipping cost to the spreadsheet and made a note to review our monthly budget.
I had begun to suspect that the true malevolent entity in this relationship was the shipping industry.
The feathers required a different approach. Akira insisted that they be collected without harming any birds, which I considered a welcome concession to reality.
I contacted a local wildlife rehabilitation organization.
The woman who answered listened patiently while I explained that I needed three dove feathers for a spiritual restoration.
“Are the feathers for educational purposes?”
“Not precisely.”
“Art?”
“Not exactly.”
“Religious ceremony?”
I hesitated.
“My boyfriend is a visual kei Sagittarius.”
She told me she couldn't help me.
I respected her decision.
The seawater was a relatively simple matter until Akira clarified that it had to be unfiltered.
“Three droplets,” I said. “Not three bottles.”
“Correct.”
“And it has to be collected directly from the sea?”
“Yes.”
“Could I buy it?”
“No.”
“Could I collect it myself?”
“Yes.”
“Could I collect it from the beach and put it in a small bottle?”
Akira looked pained.
“Daniel, please don't contaminate the process with unnecessary questions.”
I booked a trip to the coast.
The lavender plants were available at a nursery, although I was informed that they would require sunlight, drainage, and regular watering. I wondered whether their spiritual responsibilities would conflict with their horticultural ones.
The shamanic rugs proved to be a surprisingly expensive category of home furnishing. I asked Akira what distinguished a shamanic rug from an ordinary rug.
“It's the energy.”
“Could we use a rug we already own?”
“No.”
“Could we buy three ordinary rugs and spiritually upgrade them?”
“No.”
“Could I put a label on them?”
He turned away from me.
I purchased three rugs from a specialty retailer and watched my credit card balance decline with the grim fascination of a man observing a slow-motion train accident.
Then came the lighter.
I bought one at a grocery store.
Akira examined it and nodded.
“Good.”
“Thank you. I spent three dollars and forty-nine cents on the spiritual future of our household.”
He did not laugh.
I loved him, but I was beginning to think I should have asked for references before entering this relationship.