Pensive

Sarah sits on the couch and writes little notes to herself. Some of them on grocery receipts and some on her ankles.

She tells me she can read the future. (Her hands are over her furrowed brow, with a serious Uri Geller grimace)

It's going to be 10 o' clock soon.

This would be quirky and accurate if not for the fact that it is already 11:30 on a Friday and most of the clocks in our apartment are broken.

A tall dark stranger will bring you wonderful gifts She has been saying this for three days. The same number of days since she ordered three books and a wok from Amazon. She has not checked her email, which would have told her that one book is on back order and the wok is out of stock presently. No, I don't have the heart to tell her any of that.

Warm breezes will bring ill will. Again, whatever tea leaves she has been reading must be slightly out of date. (The forecast is for highs in the 40s with heavy fog).

She is staring into her coffee cup and examining its contents, swirling it in tight little half circles and whispering to herself.

The love of your life is no longer true.

I wait for more words from the psychic , but I hear nothing and when I lean over to look in the cup I can see it is empty.

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