Unfortunate

“Welcome, welcome,” the psychic spoke in a low voice.

“Hello,” Simon replied, walking through the chemical puffs of the busy fog machine.

“Yes, do take a seat,” she whispered, gesturing to the chair opposite her.

Streamers of incense ribboned into the cramped, smoke-filled room. Simon had to squeeze sideways to reach the chair across from the psychic’s table.

Great. Now I’m cornered, Simon thought, his claustrophobia clawing his throat. He was inches from full-on panic.

“Just take a deep breath, dear,” the woman said as if she knew. “Everything will be fine. In… good. And out… very good. Here,” she said, stretching across the table, bracelets clinking, “give me your hands.”

Simon reached for her dainty, weathered hands. Her long, beringed fingers felt cool and fragile in his grip.

“Madame Loraine of the Fourth Moon,” she said grandly. “And you are—”

“Simon—”

“Shhh….” She shushed him. “I knew that, of course. They never give me a chance,” she clucked, her head shaking like a hen’s.

“Here to learn about your future, then?”

“Well, I—”

“Shhh…. Of course you are, dear. I’m a psychic. You read the sign out front.”

“Yes, well, I was particularly curious about my—”

She shushed him. “Career and love life. Of course, dear.”

Simon blinked. “Okay… but you must—”

“Shhh…. Hear the same things all the time? Of course, dear.”

If she shushes me again…. “Yeah, but you’re just finishing my sentences. That’s not—”

“Magic?” she asked.

“I—”

“Shhh…. Shall we begin?”

You shush, lady…. Simon nodded reluctantly.

Madame Loraine’s grip tightened on Simon’s fingers. Her head flung back with a moan like a ghost dying its third death.

The woman’s head dropped, and her hands went limp. “Um. Hello—?”

She shushed him. “I’m tuned in. Your future is camera footage. Shall I describe it?”

This lady has no idea what she’s—

“It’s not very pretty…” she croaked.

“That’s why—”

“That’s why you came. Of course.” She sighed. “The year is 2025. You’re unmarried. Unhappy. Living in New York City. Gross, you shower every three days?”

“What?”

“No wonder you’re single.”

“No, I—”

“Shhh….” Her head shook. “That pandemic really screws you up, huh?”

“Pandemic? Wait—”

“It’s fine. You live. Kind of not as bad as they make it out to be. But pre-hindsight? That’s 20/8. Too sharp. Too hard to believe. Anyway, good news: Manhattan hasn’t sunk yet. Bad news: the hoverboard still doesn’t exist. And cars can’t fly.”

“Bullshit! Seriously?”

“I’m upset about it too, dear. What else? Mhmm, yes.” She bit her lip and growled.

“World War 3 is imminent….

“Kanye West is a literal Nazi….

“Donald Trump is POTUS….

“For a second term….”

Yeah, right, Simon thought, standing.

“And Democrats are spray-painting swastikas on electric cars. And fire-bombing them. Nothing makes sense. Your future’s—”

“Shhh!” Simon shushed her. That felt good. ”Crazy lady. I want a refund!” He squeezed out from the table’s tight confines.

“Fine, leave. But don’t say I didn’t warn you about the pizza rats, Simon…. They’re organizing!”