She reaches out for my hand and I give it to her. She swings it back and forth, taking my arm with it. The closer we get, the more I regret agreeing to this. My apprehension quickly mutates into dread. The dread elbows around my chest like a stranger with somewhere to be. By the time we’re standing at the door, engulfed in the neon haze from the crystal ball, I’m certain I do not want to do this. Above the crystal ball, there’s another neon sign, on but barely functioning, sputtering and pale, that reads PSYCHIC.
It’s literally a bad sign.
But it’s too late to object. Nadia is already pushing open the door. A bell chimes somewhere above us.
Thick curls of smoke writhe across the room. It smells of incense and antiques, like basement furniture. The smoke stings my eyes and monopolizes my lungs. I try, unsuccessfully, to stifle a series of awkward coughs.
“Hello, hello,” says a disembodied voice. A woman emerges from behind a velvet curtain. She’s short and covered in scarves. Her hair is in a chaotic bun. She’s older. The deep wrinkles on her forehead remind me of the small, illegible script on historical documents. A constitution or peace treaty.
“Hiiiiii,” Nadia sings. “We’re here for readings.”
“Yes,” the woman says. “Welcome. My name is Atlas.”
She looks more like a Linda to me.
“What kind of readings?” she asks us. “I do a fifteen-minute tarot, half an hour, and a full hour. Ten-minute palm. I could also do birth charts, chakras, numerology.”
“Palm,” Nadia says. She turns to me for my approval.
“Sure,” I say.
“Okay,” Atlas says, smiling at us. She’s got a gold tooth. I wonder if it’s real. “Who’s first?”
“She is,” I say, pushing Nadia forward.
She doesn’t mind. “Me!” she says, swaying her hips back and forth.
“All right, here we go,” Atlas says, lifting the curtain for Nadia. They both disappear behind it, leaving me alone.
I wasn’t aware that a palm reading was a private affair.
The smoke has dispersed, revealing a room of excess. Congested bookcases. Ceramic figurines perched on crooked shelves. The walls are busy with a variety of charts and maps and the signs of the zodiac, various celestial bodies.
I eye the door. I could leave. I could bail. Nadia might get mad, but that doesn’t really matter. We’re not close, and I’m about to move hours away. We’ll probably never see each other again after tonight.
I shouldn’t. If it weren’t for her, I’d be sitting at home alone on my birthday. My alternate plan was to cry in the fetal position while listening to “Landslide” on repeat.
I can stick it out.
There’s a soft noise, like the hum of an invisible bird. Then a sudden ding that sends my shoulders knocking against my ears. I turn around, searching for the source, and find an intricate clock mounted high on the wall. I need to tilt my head back to see its face. Faces. It has two, both enclosed in a tower of carved wood. Despite being pretty tall, I need to stand on my tiptoes to examine further.
The bottom face tells time, but I can’t read the top. It’s strange and complex, with multiple cogs and golden hands moving in all different directions over a kaleidoscope of colors. Green, orange, yellow, blue, pink. The longer I stare, the more the colors blend together, like in a mood ring. It’s purple now. There must be some kind of liquid inside. Mercury? As it morphs, I can almost make out a shape. What’s maybe a flower.
“Oooh, cool clock!” Nadia says, popping up behind me. “Your turn.”
“What’d she say?” I ask her.
“That I’m going to be filthy rich!” she says. “Just kidding. I’ll tell you after.”
“Through there?” I point to the curtain.
“Yup!”
I lift the curtain back and duck underneath it. There’s a short hallway that widens into a circular room. In the center is a round table draped in layers of silky fabric. It’s slightly askew on a stack of Persian rugs. Two mismatched wooden chairs are tucked underneath. One of them is occupied by Atlas, who is shuffling a deck of tarot cards.
“Please, have a seat,” she says, gesturing to the other chair.
I’m ready to get this over with. I step onto the rugs and seat myself in the chair. I wonder how many people have sat in it before me and what brought them here. A pushy friend. Spontaneity. Curiosity. Desperation.
Maybe I’m letting my cynicism deprive me of a positive experience. Even if this is nonsense, won’t it be a comfort to hear about a future, any future, that could possibly be mine? To temporarily escape the pain of the present and be reminded that one day this will be behind me? That I won’t wake up every day feeling like my chest is full of stones. That I won’t be constantly thinking about Sam or about everything I might have done to prevent myself from ending up where I am now.