An arched doorway leads down a hall to another door—a windowed french door. Green is visible through the doors, like a garden is back there, but how can that be when the block is so narrow and there’s an Ikea behind this building?
After a few minutes of glancing around, I wander over to the checkout and lean over the counter to get a better look at the register.
“Hello.”
I jump and spin around. A young lady is right behind me. And I mean young. She can’t be more than sixteen. She’s wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt and ripped jeans.
She’s too close, in my bubble. I want to step back but can’t since the counter is behind me. I’d have to step around her, but I don’t want to be rude.
“Hi. Um. How do I get my fortune told?” I ask.
She stares, silent, a small smile on her face. The silence stretches and stretches. Can she speak? How can she stand there without moving or talking, not breaking eye contact? She doesn’t seem uncomfortable with the quiet or the closeness.
Her head tilts as she considers me. “We don’t do fortune telling.”
I flinch with the sudden answer. “Oh, right. Well, then tarot readings?”
She stares at me.
“It said it on the sign.” I point to it, even though it faces out the window and you can’t read the words from here.
She neither confirms nor denies, her gaze unmoving from mine.
I fidget, having a hard time maintaining eye contact. This is why I hate talking to people. They’re unpredictable. What is she thinking? Why is she staring at me? Is there something on my face? Shouldn’t she be in school? Can she tell I’ve lost my ever-loving mind?
I can’t handle the silence.
The clock in the corner ticks. Like it’s a bomb about to go off and still, she stares.
“So. Um. Can I get some . . . tarot reading?”
She pauses again for so long, I think I’m going to have to repeat the question, but then she finally speaks. “Let me see if I can fit you in.” She steps around me, going behind the counter.
I count out a quiet minute while she opens the dusty, leather-bound book and drags a finger down it.
She looks up. “It seems we’re free. It’s a ninety-seven dollars. Paid up front.”
“Ninety-seven dollars?”
She nods.
I frown. That’s oddly specific. Well, guess it doesn’t matter anyway. I have some cash I’d been saving for a rainy day—which happens to be exactly ninety-seven dollars—tucked in a pocket of my wallet.
And well, it’s raining. I used to have an even hundred, but I spent three dollars on a breakfast sandwich from a food cart the other week. Is it weird she asked for the exact amount I happen to have? I don’t really want to give up my only cash, but I don’t think the ancient cash register will take my credit card. Besides, what are my other options? What else am I going to do? I hand it over and she pulls a lever and tucks the money into the drawer.
Then she steps out from behind the counter. “Right through here.”
I expect to be led to a dark room with candles, maybe to a table with a glowing crystal ball or something. But instead, she leads me through the arched doorway, down the tiled hall, and out into the garden.
Green vines weave over the muted red and brown brick walls enclosing the space. There’s a miniature koi pond and fountain on one side, a stone bench overlooking them.
She motions for me to take a seat, so I sit, the cool stone leeching through my pants and chilling my thighs and butt.
She sits next to me. A little too close. I scoot as far over as I can without falling off the edge.
“Is there anything specific you are seeking guidance on? Any questions you want to ask of the universe?”
“Wait. Are you the psychic?”
Another lengthy silence. If her eyes weren’t open, I might think she was sleeping. “I’m more of a spiritual advisor.”
She’s a teenager. What is she going to advise me on? TikTok and the rise and fall of Justin Bieber? This may have been the worst decision I’ve made on this day so far, and that’s really saying something. But I doubt I’ll get a refund. And I have no one else to talk to.
I think about how to phrase my question for a few seconds, to tell her the truth without coming off as completely unhinged, and finally settle on, “Every day is the same, over and over. And I have no control over anything. Do you know what I mean?”
She nods slowly, not meeting my eyes, instead looking out at the garden. I follow her gaze over the greenery to a statue of an angel perched on a concrete bust next to the pond.
She inhales and exhales a couple of times.
“Every day is the same,” she repeats slowly. “Yes. It seems you have an issue with time.”
My attention snaps to her, watching her profile. My breath catches in my chest. “Yes.”
Her lips thin. Her head tilts. Then she shakes her head. “No. Time isn’t your real issue. You just think it is.”
“What do you mean? Time is the issue. It’s exactly my issue.”
She turns and meets my gaze head-on, unblinking. Then she grins. “Time doesn’t exist.”
“Oh,” I laugh. “I beg to differ.”
She shakes her head. “Time is not linear. It’s more of a circle. But even that is too simplistic.” She thinks for a minute and then snaps her fingers. “Time is like a taco.”
“A taco?”
“You have something against tacos?”
“No. I love tacos. Especially the little street ones with the double tortillas, but how
