Rain pounded against the windshield of my car, distorting the glow of the neon signs across from me. “Madame Zandoori’s Psychic Readings,” the sign proclaimed in cherry-red letters, and a smaller, unlit sign underneath explained that they also did palmistry and tarot cards. It was a small place, wedged between a Lebanese restaurant and a laundromat.
It seemed banal and incredibly clichéd, but that was what I was looking for. I checked my phone, stalling against the moment I would have to get out of the car, and saw I had missed six calls. That was enough to get me moving.
I nearly pulled on my gloves out of habit, but I caught myself and stuffed them in my pocket. I needed to learn as much as I could, as fast as I could, that meant I couldn’t have my blinders on, however uncomfortable the experience might be.
I stepped out of the car and walked up to the door. The air was thick with smells despite the rain, cigarette smoke, spilled gasoline, the enticing aroma of cooking meat. My stomach growled, but I had to ignore it. I had a hard time eating at restaurants. Some things cannot be un-learned.
It felt as though the rain had a personal grudge against me, and was intent on bringing me down. Despite this, I paused in front of the door, and reconsidered. The open sign beckoned luridly, but the dark interior of the building seemed like a trap of some kind.
I almost laughed. You wouldn’t think a psychic would have these kind of problems. Unfortunately, I cannot see the future. Read More…