Gavin Scott Vargas paused outside the community center, double-checking the Meetup listing on his phone. Through the glass doors, fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across a collection of fold-out tables. A paper sign taped crookedly to the wall read "Card Gaming Night!" with a clip-art illustration that somehow managed to be both vague and enthusiastic.
He adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, feeling the reassuring weight of his deck box against his hip. The protective case alone had cost more than his last grocery run, but you couldn't put a price on keeping your holocards mint. Well, technically you could – he had a whole spreadsheet tracking their market value.
The smell of instant coffee and cleaning supplies hit him as he stepped inside. Most of the usual suspects were missing. No sign of Dave and his mono-red burn deck, or Sarah's endless supply of dice. Instead, the room held an eclectic mix of people he'd never seen at tournaments, arranged in intimate pairs across scattered tables.
That's when he noticed her.
She sat alone in the corner, bathed in a pool of light from the buzzing fluorescents overhead. Silver bangles clinked softly as she arranged oversized cards in a semicircle, her dark curls falling forward to brush the table's surface. Her movements had the same measured precision he recognized from his own pre-game rituals, but there was something almost orchestral about her gestures, as if she were conducting a silent symphony.
He found himself drifting toward her table before he'd made a conscious decision to move.
She looked up as his shadow fell across her cards, and Gavin's carefully prepared greeting evaporated. Her eyes were the warm brown of coffee with just a hint of cream, and they crinkled at the corners as she smiled.
"The cards said someone interesting would cross my path tonight," she said, her voice carrying a trace of amusement. "Though they neglected to mention the cargo shorts."
Gavin glanced down at his attire and felt heat creep up his neck. "They're practical. All the pockets are perfect for storing dice and tokens and..." He trailed off as she bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. "I'm Gavin," he managed, then added because he couldn't help himself, "But my friends call me GSV."
"Like the card grading scale?" Her eyes lit up, and it was Gavin's turn to be surprised.
"You know about card grading?"
"My brother collected Pokemon cards. I spent half my childhood learning more than I ever wanted to know about holographic Charizards." She gathered her cards with fluid movements. "I'm Cynthia."
"Want to play a few rounds?" Gavin asked, already reaching for his deck box. The satisfying click of the magnetic closure preceded the soft whisper of cards sliding free of their case. Light caught the holographic surfaces as his hands moved through his usual shuffling routine – riffle, bridge, pile, repeat.
Cynthia's fingers stilled on her own cards. They were larger than his, he noticed now, and the edges bore the soft wear of frequent handling. The artwork looked hand-drawn, delicate pencil strokes capturing mysterious figures and symbols.
"I think," she said slowly, holding up a card that definitely wasn't legal in any format he'd ever played, "we might be working with different decks here."
Gavin's shuffle faltered, sending several cards skittering across the table. "Those are... not Magic cards."
"Tarot." Cynthia rescued one of his escaped cards, examining the creature depicted on its face. "Though I suppose we're both dealing in different kinds of magic, aren't we?"
Their eyes met across the table, and something electric passed between them. Gavin gathered his cards, carefully squaring the edges. "I've never had my fortune told," he admitted. "Unless you count that time I pulled a foil Jace in a draft and knew it was going to be my lucky day."
"And I've never played..." she gestured at his deck.
"Magic. The Gathering," he supplied. "It's actually a pretty complex game with multiple formats and..."
"Teach me?" She leaned forward, those coffee-warm eyes sparkling with curiosity. "But first, let me read your cards. Fair trade?"
Gavin settled more comfortably in his chair, the plastic creaking beneath him. "I should warn you, I'm pretty good at reading signals myself. Kind of comes with the territory when you're trying to figure out if your opponent's holding a counterspell."
"We'll see about that." Cynthia's hands moved over her cards, shuffling them in a way that was completely different from his practiced technique but no less mesmerizing. "The cards don't lie, but they don't always tell the whole truth either. You have to learn to read between the lines."
She laid out three cards in a simple spread. Candlelight from a nearby table caught the graphite drawings, making them seem to shift and move. "The Tower," she said, touching the first card. "See how the lightning splits it? It represents unexpected change, disruption of the familiar."
"Sounds like that time they banned my favorite card right before nationals," Gavin muttered, then fell silent as she revealed the next card.
"Two of Cups." Her finger traced the image of two figures sharing a drink. "New connections, partnerships forming." A slight flush colored her cheeks as she turned the final card.
"And?" Gavin prompted when she remained quiet.
"The Fool." She tapped the card showing a figure about to step off a cliff. "New beginnings. Taking a leap of faith." Their eyes met again, and this time the electricity lasted longer.
Around them, the community center hummed with conversation. Trading card gamers and fortune tellers mingled awkwardly, united by their shared love of rectangular pieces of cardboard that meant more than their material components suggested.
"You know," Gavin said, his voice softer than before, "there's a coffee shop around the corner. Better lighting. Fewer people wondering why we're mixing our metaphors and card games."
Cynthia began gathering her cards, her movements unhurried but purposeful. "Are you asking me out, GSV?"
"Maybe I'm just following the cards' advice about new beginnings." He carefully returned his deck to its box, the magnetic closure punctuating his words with a decisive click.