Interpreting the meaning of each card drawn onto the spread comes easily enough, but something is... different. Even as he tries to examine the card with jaded detachment nurtured from years of emptiness and disappointment, Dexter cannot help but experience an icy sensation permeate his entire being with a disconcerting mixture of awe and dread in continuous flux. As his eyes roam slowly across the ominous image of the Tower Arcana, the dread is immediately swallowed up by an all-consuming hollowness. An eternity seems to transpire in a manner of seconds, feeling as though he stands looking down from the precipice of a cliff with an agonizing impulse to take the next step that will surely send him plummeting... to what, exactly? The abyss? Or something else?
A bloom of heat blossoms across Dexter's face, prompting a hand to wipe at his brow as he looks up. It occurs to him that although this is San Francisco and he has been fairly liberal in his drinking this particular evening, the weather has been fairly temperate of late, not to mention the constant influx of AC throughout the interior of the club should be more than sufficient to maintain a chilled atmosphere.
It is at this point that Dexter realizes that his immediate surroundings beyond the periphery of the booth that he and June currently share has faded away like theater stage lights pinpointing some especially dramatic scene. Despite his fight or flight response screaming at him to stop, panic, or run away, some unfathomable... compulsion quells these knee-jerk responses and urges him to perceive and feel the moment itself.
His hand unconsciously draws the next card, another explanation spilling forth unbidden from his mouth. Whatever explanation he is giving is irrelevant however, overwhelmed by what can only be described as inhumanly sharp mental clarity. Dexter knows by heart the meanings and interpretations of each and every single card from years upon years of practice and instruction, but in this singular instance, even as the meaning of the Fool Arcana in Reverse is readily apparent, a startling epiphany pierces his very soul like a lightning bolt from on high. This... this isn't June... it's me.
Even as the young man struggles with this convergence of revelations, the table between them inexplicably loses its opacity, and it is with what can only be described as utter entrancement that Dexter beholds a blazing conflagration enclosed within a tarot card.
The submerged sense of horror slowly reasserts itself, his breath and pulse quickening at a maddening pace. The haze of intoxication burns away to reveal a panic-stricken expression, his body struggling to recoil and cope with this cascade of new sensations even as his hand, as if possessed with a will of its own, continues to draw from the deck.