Emma Smith

Between Here and There

She let out a sigh of relief when her client crossed the threshold as she felt the man was on to her. The client got up from the velveteen upholstered armchair and strode out into yet another rainy San Francisco afternoon. He wasn’t a regular, thank god. Her regulars would not have stood for the performance she just cobbled together. Well, David, your aunt tells me she is proud of the man you have become. “What was that?” she demanded of herself. The various mauve tapestries and oriental rugs strewn around the studio dampened her outburst. Ever since that woman called her a hack last week, she hadn’t been able to tap the signal. The pathways to the other side were constricted and every tether she cast into the ether returned with loose traces to the physical world. That woman wasn’t wrong, a psychic with no connection was a hack, but that wasn’t her. She poured herself a glass of whiskey from the vintage cocktail cart by the staircase. “At least I still know how to call on one spirit.” Her particular brand of celestial humor that had secured loyal clientele in the city for over a decade couldn’t distract from the feeling that something was irrevocably off.