There’s this old gypsy woman at the tube station downtown where I get off in the morning. Sometimes I see her, some mornings I don’t. She has wrinkles, lots of them. First time she approached me, I was waiting to buy something from the patisserie. You can barely hear her speak among the street noise.
She’s a palm reader.
“Hai la tiganca sa-ti citeasca in palma.”
Her tariff isn’t quite fixed, though. Don’t expect a receipt. And don’t expect her to take you to a nice cozy place and have a seat at a round table with a crystal globe in the middle of it. None of that. The street is all yours, and free for rent, for that matter.
I wonder how many customers she has. And how many truths she believes to have said all this time. I’ll make it easy on her next time she asks. My life line looks pretty long to me.