“Go aw—!”
I had barely uttered two words, but it was enough to jolt me awake. I could’ve sworn someone had just been beside me, whispering questions in my ear, demanding answers… But I was alone in my dark living room. Anyone who had been talking to me had been only a dream.
I sat up, the lack of light disorienting. What I’d intended to be an innocent catnap had gone long enough that night had fallen. I could feel the lines embedded in my cheek from where my face had pressed against the cushions of my new couch. My hair was matted to one side of my head. I smacked my lips, trying to rid my mouth of that awful, dry, cottony taste. I hated accidental coma-naps.
My stomach rumbled angrily—my breakfast was now a distant memory. I groaned and slid off the couch, fumbling around my dark apartment for the light switch. I smacked my shins against my new furniture as I went, cursing loudly with every impact.
When my hand finally found the switch, the light easily flickered to life… but only for a moment. One of the bulbs made a tinkling noise and then sputtered out.
I swore under my breath. I had no spare light bulbs. And no food, still. I would need to go out again, but I caught sight of myself in the wall mirror I had mounted next to the door. At the moment I looked like a zombie. My long, brown hair was a tangled mess, and I could definitely see the imprint of couch cushions on my face.
Not even a month ago, I’d rather be dead than seen like this in public, but my breakup had done something odd to my self-esteem. It fluctuated wildly, swinging between feeling awesome and feeling terrible about myself, but sometimes it would sway to a strange place where I didn’t care at all.
That was where it had landed now, and at this particular moment, it felt good.
I painfully combed through my hair with my fingers and rubbed the side of my face in hopes of smoothing out the lines. It didn’t really help, but it was enough to persuade me to leave the house in search of a convenience store. I had already conquered a mountain of Scandinavian furniture; I could do anything.
I shoved some money into my pocket and headed out. As I locked up my apartment, I happily noticed it already felt routine. I leapt up the steps to street level and spotted a large illuminated sign in the distance: a convenience store was close by. Another bonus for this apartment. With the promise of chips and pop beckoning me, I was about to jog down the street, but I stopped dead in my tracks.
After days of no signs of life in my neighbour’s shop, it was finally open. Here it was, in the middle of the night, its neon sign flickering happily and a soft warm glow peeping through the gauzy curtains. I stared at the psychic shop in shock, bewildered that it would be open now, at this hour.
My stomach ceased growling, forgetting its need. My urgent errand of light bulbs was also dismissed. I didn’t even stop to think that I looked like something that had crawled out of a dumpster. I just stepped forward, slinking down the steps towards the door.
I wanted—no, needed—to go in; it was the strongest, indescribable urge. Maybe it was the mystery of a little shop that kept such weird hours, or perhaps I was just too curious for my own good. Or maybe… maybe it was the feeling of the unknown that pervaded my life right now. I was downright desperate for a little bit of insight, and that was their business.
I approached the plain white door, identical to mine, like I was stalking skittish prey, afraid that I could somehow spook it. If I moved too quickly or too loudly, the light might suddenly shut off, and I would miss my chance.
I reached for the doorknob and froze, suddenly self-conscious; the sceptic in me flared up. This was silly. This was the definition of silly. I had never been one to give in to superstition easily, and it was absurd I was on the threshold now. The rational part of me chirped up, reminding me that there were no real psychics. All “psychics” were really just perceptive liars who told you what you wanted to hear, then used smoke and mirrors to con you out of your money.
Whatever my personal problems were, did I really need to talk to a psychic? But as I was about to turn away, the ache returned, and I knew exactly why I wanted to go in. Rick.
Logic had failed me yet again; this wasn’t about the truth, this was about my heart. Even though I had told myself a thousand times that I would be all right, that I would make it through this, that I’d find someone else… I wanted reassurance. I wanted someone else to say it.
All the arguments I was wrestling within my head were suddenly thrown aside. As my hand hovered over the doorknob, deciding whether or not to turn it, it turned itself. I went rigid, my heart skipping a beat. Was the door opening itself? That would be too creepy, even for a sceptic like me.
But it was no spirit, or magic spell, that opened the door… It was just a person. They were silhouetted by the light behind them, making it difficult to see them for a moment. When my eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, I looked up into their eyes and froze with shock. My mouth opened and closed without producing a single sound.
It was the guy—the gorgeous, perfect guy—from before. His green eyes seemed to shine in the darkness, sharp and clear. I was simultaneously entranced and envious; I only had dull brown eyes that didn’t do anything spectacular. All I could do was stare at him, like he was a mirage that would disappear as soon as I could find the will to blink.
“May I help you?” he asked, breaking the awkward silence that had started to drag on. His gaze was kind, but he raised a single eyebrow. I wondered what he thought about finding me on his doorstep in such a dishevelled state.
“Uhm,” I replied wittily. “I’m here to see the psychic…?”
He blinked for a second before his face eased into that wide, beautiful grin—the same one from this morning. “Of course. Please, come in.”
As he stepped aside to allow me to enter, my stunned brain finally kicked in and realized that this was the second time I had seen him around here. What was a gorgeous thing like him doing hanging out in a shop like this? Was he a friend or just a regular customer?
My mind ran away from me as I wondered if I could date a guy who regularly visited shops like this…
The thought of shops like this flitted away as I stepped through the door; this was not what came to mind when I thought of psychic shops. I had been expecting a wizened old woman hidden beneath a mountain of shawls in a dim, dank little room, candles flickering on every surface, and embroidered fabrics covering the walls. This shop, however, was surprisingly modern. Obviously, it was the same apartment as mine, but it had been divided by a large curtain, splitting the main room in half and hiding the back rooms.
It was well lit but sparsely furnished in a stylish, minimalist sort of way. The walls were white, as was the dividing curtain, and everything was made out of fair, blond wood, even the floor. Pushed against the far wall was a long, thin table, and as I walked further into the apartment, I saw it was cluttered with various oddities. In the centre of the room, a matching square table was placed, with two chairs on either side, facing each other. That table only held a single deck of cards, overly large cards with delicately decorated backings.
No, not at all what I had expected.
The mysterious, delicious man waited patiently as I gawked. When I finally came back to Earth, I blushed deeply, realizing I was being a complete space-case. He merely smiled and then moved towards the table in the centre of the makeshift room.
He pulled out one of the chairs for me and wordlessly invited me to sit with a wave of his hand. I smiled at him as I took my seat, admiring his chivalry, trying my best to look alluring despite the fact I probably looked deranged. I prepared myself to wait, expecting him to disappear behind the curtain to retrieve the elusive psychic, wondering if it was his mother, or grandmother, or girlfriend… my chest tightened at the last thought. Hopefully, it wasn’t that.
But he casually took the seat across from me. My mouth dropped open. Surely, it couldn’t be him. Him? He should have been modelling somewhere overseas, starring in movies, seducing a thousand women with a single glance, not working in a psychic shop.
My earlier thought returned. Could I date a man who regularly visited psychics? Maybe. Could I date a man who was a psychic? The idea seemed insane… until I looked into those green eyes, those impossibly green eyes, and suddenly the answer wasn’t so clear.
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