Justin burst into laughter. "You guys brought me to a hot mystic?" The guys all hooted and slapped him and pushed him out of the car and into the building, but Marc hung back. There had been something, maybe too much, in her gaze. He stood in the doorway, which was propped open to let in a breeze. The interior of the shop was a single large room with a circle of five cushions and, at the far side, a single door. The walls were hung with patterned cloth and strange diagrams of chi pathways. There was a strong, sharp aromatic burning in some hidden pot, filling the room with an oily haze. Marc didn't leave the doorway as the other men sat down, slowly coming to quiet.
The far door opened, and Marc felt his heart beating faster. He didn't believe in this nonsense, anyway. The young woman appeared, this time with a nearly-spherical bowl full of water. She walked slowly to the circle, but paused as Deshaun hissed "Marc! Come on, man."
"That seat is not his," she said softly.
"Sorry, what?" Carlo cleared his throat.
She sat down and placed the bowl between her legs. Marc watched from near the doorway as she performed some impressive slight of hand tricks, thrusting her hands deep into the bowl of water and flicking out tarot cards at the best man and the groom. By the time Justin had five or six copies of the lovers, the woman had earned her money and the group was in stitches. Benjamin paid her in cash and they all left, slapping each other on the back. But Marc hung back. She was staring directly at him. She was very small, suddenly, in the big empty room, but Marc was held. He started to feel his breathing quite consciously.
"Come here," she said, standing, holding out a small piece of paper. He drew near to her rock-steady, outstretched arm, and took the small scrap. It looked like it had been folded over several times and torn from a well-made journal. As he went to unfold it, she fled to the back room and slapped the door closed behind her. In the dim lighting, he could barely make out the words.
Marc sat down that evening and made a list of the things he would like to do. He called his childhood friend first and patched things up between them. He ordered his mother the only original vinyl pressing of Styx' discography that she was missing. He wrote a short note to his little sister that closed out all the secrets he had ever kept from her and dropped it in the mail. He threw away a box of embarrassing memorabilia from his last two relationships.
Marc finished law school that May. He didn't apply to any internships, which puzzled his friends and worried his mother, but they assumed he was taking a break year. He planned a trip to Guadalcanal to see where his grandfather had been killed in the war, and he spent two weeks just wandering with a group of reckless friends he had made while snorkeling in New Guinea. He came back in June and sat around the house for four days cleaning out his room, throwing away all the useless detritus from his school days and carefully organizing all the things he thought his mother might like to see. He sat down and wrote a will on the thirtieth of June, wrote his mother a note explaining everything, and fell asleep to die.
When he woke up the next morning, he was utterly confused. He whipped the covers nearly across the room and fell to his hands and knees in his haste. He tipped the bookcase over trying to pull his journal off the shelf, and by the time he had the hastily scratched note from the seer in his hands, his roommate was pounding on the door, asking about the noise.
"It's nothing!" Marc shouted. "I just had to go to the bathroom, and, uh--I tripped putting on pants."
"You sleep in the buff?" came the incredulous reply.
Marc didn't respond. He was trying to understand, and then it dawned on him. She must have meant next July. Or maybe the one after that. She wasn't specific. Marc smiled a little, totally relieved, and called his uncle about the part-time job he'd been bugging him about.
The next June, he was in the Philippines. The June after that he saw Machu Picchu. The June after that, Caracas. His family could not explain why he always seemed to return in the last week of June, covered in new joy and armed with presents, only to sit in the family home for four or five days, seemingly immobile.
He never went back to the Psychic Portal, and besides, it was closed soon afterward. There isn't much money in magic and charlatanism, and the location was bad, anyhow.
She sat down and placed the bowl between her legs. Marc watched from near the doorway as she performed some impressive slight of hand tricks, thrusting her hands deep into the bowl of water and flicking out tarot cards at the best man and the groom. By the time Justin had five or six copies of the lovers, the woman had earned her money and the group was in stitches. Benjamin paid her in cash and they all left, slapping each other on the back. But Marc hung back. She was staring directly at him. She was very small, suddenly, in the big empty room, but Marc was held. He started to feel his breathing quite consciously.
"Come here," she said, standing, holding out a small piece of paper. He drew near to her rock-steady, outstretched arm, and took the small scrap. It looked like it had been folded over several times and torn from a well-made journal. As he went to unfold it, she fled to the back room and slapped the door closed behind her. In the dim lighting, he could barely make out the words.
I saw you this morning and knew a date: don't make plans for July.He rubbed his eyes and looked at the paper again, but there was no mistaking the writing there. What did it mean? Could it mean anything else? He stumbled out of the Psychic Portal and into the old Tercel, still clutching the paper. No one saw him draw it out multiple times to stare at it, because they were all yelling "Born in the USA" into the early summer sunshine. He had less than two months.
Marc sat down that evening and made a list of the things he would like to do. He called his childhood friend first and patched things up between them. He ordered his mother the only original vinyl pressing of Styx' discography that she was missing. He wrote a short note to his little sister that closed out all the secrets he had ever kept from her and dropped it in the mail. He threw away a box of embarrassing memorabilia from his last two relationships.
Marc finished law school that May. He didn't apply to any internships, which puzzled his friends and worried his mother, but they assumed he was taking a break year. He planned a trip to Guadalcanal to see where his grandfather had been killed in the war, and he spent two weeks just wandering with a group of reckless friends he had made while snorkeling in New Guinea. He came back in June and sat around the house for four days cleaning out his room, throwing away all the useless detritus from his school days and carefully organizing all the things he thought his mother might like to see. He sat down and wrote a will on the thirtieth of June, wrote his mother a note explaining everything, and fell asleep to die.
When he woke up the next morning, he was utterly confused. He whipped the covers nearly across the room and fell to his hands and knees in his haste. He tipped the bookcase over trying to pull his journal off the shelf, and by the time he had the hastily scratched note from the seer in his hands, his roommate was pounding on the door, asking about the noise.
"It's nothing!" Marc shouted. "I just had to go to the bathroom, and, uh--I tripped putting on pants."
"You sleep in the buff?" came the incredulous reply.
Marc didn't respond. He was trying to understand, and then it dawned on him. She must have meant next July. Or maybe the one after that. She wasn't specific. Marc smiled a little, totally relieved, and called his uncle about the part-time job he'd been bugging him about.
The next June, he was in the Philippines. The June after that he saw Machu Picchu. The June after that, Caracas. His family could not explain why he always seemed to return in the last week of June, covered in new joy and armed with presents, only to sit in the family home for four or five days, seemingly immobile.
He never went back to the Psychic Portal, and besides, it was closed soon afterward. There isn't much money in magic and charlatanism, and the location was bad, anyhow.
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