Madam ZuZu’s Psychic Pservices isn’t her full-time gig. She spends her days answering phones for a local telecom, rushes home to scarf down a Hot Pocket, then Ubers to her downtown storefront just in time for the bars to start swinging.
She’s barely wrapped her turban when the doorbell jangles. It’s a blonde guy, maybe 25, with sad eyes, no ring, knockoff shoes, and stone cold sober—the worst kind of customer.
“Welcome, stranger,” she says, pitching her voice low. He starts to speak, but she rushes on, “Yes, of course I can tell you about her. Come.”
Blondie’s eyes widen, but he obediently sits down across from her at the “crystal” ball.
She stretches her fingers out and grimaces as if in pain. Then with a sudden, indecent moan, she says, “You will meet a tall, dark stranger. She will sweep you off your feet. It will be soon.”
It’s the most obvious, bogus cliché, but his excitement is real. Dude is desperate.
With heart-shaped sparkles in his eyes, Blondie puts $100 in her hand, then steps out into the neon-lit night.
Where he’s knocked down by a brunette blur in a short skirt and high heels.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” the young woman exclaims, helping him up.
Madame ZuZu watches as the two laugh apologies until it turns into a date at the wine bar next door. She shakes her head, smiling to herself. Even a phony psychic gets it right once in a while.
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.
