“Let me see. You’ve found success recently,” I state, watching the client carefully for any micro-emotions she might let escape. I catch a fraction of a smile.
“Why, yes. I have… I was recently engaged.”
So, she’s that kind of woman. Love equates success. This should be easy. “Your fiancé is very handsome,” I say with a smirk. “You’re a lucky girl.”
The client beams. I’ve struck gold. My finger lightly traces along the faint lines of her palm. There’s hardly a callous in sight. Her hands are silky smooth. “Your fiancé works with people. Upper management, is it?”
She woman nods eagerly, looking more impressed with each educated guess I make. Sometimes I can’t believe we actually turn a profit from playing these kinds of parlor tricks. On occasion, I even feel a little bad about it. But not tonight. This client reminds me of the I have her wrapped around my finger now. The key factor to getting a client to believe your act is gaining their trust within the first thirty seconds of the appointment. I barely know Blondie’s name and she already has invested all of her trust in me. No matter how accurate the reading, there will always be clients who believe and clients who discredit every word that comes out of my mouth. I’m sure even the real psychics – if they exist – have been called phony at one point or another.
"Is he going to get the promotion he’s been interviewing for?” she asks, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. I love it when clients offer information. The fewer questions I ask – the bigger the tip I get at the end of the session.
"Hmmmm.” I pretend to study the shallow crevices along her hand. Just for extra effect, I trace my fingers along the surface of her palm once more. “According to your love line, his good fortune will lead to a long and happy marriage. It looks like a promotion is definitely in order for him either this summer or next fall.”
Blondie giggles and looks relieved. Gold diggers are all the same. “How many kids will we have?’
“How did you know I was going to tell you that next?” I say. “And they call me the psychic around here.”
She giggles again.
“You will have…” I circle my index finger along her life line. I always have to be careful when clients ask questions like this. As much as I’ve always wanted to, I’ve never been able to throw a large number at them. This isn’t a schoolyard game of M.A.S.H., where having 100 children is always a possibility. These people are actually paying me to tell them what they want to hear. I usually stick to the average “two” unless I’m dropped hints that the client actually wants five children. “Two children. Two beautiful girls.” She looks like the kind of woman who will dress her daughters in matching pink gowns before they can even walk. Maybe they’ll even know how to use curling irons before they know how to write their names.
Blondie appears to be extremely pleased. “That’s what I always thought I’d end up with.” She moves her palm away to clasp her hands together in what one might call a fit of joy.
I smile, but feel my patience running thin. Sure, I’d rather have a client who eats every word I say with a side of chocolate than a dingy naysayer, but Blondie is getting a little out of hand. I wait until she asks another question before I continue, because really, who am I to interrupt her seizure of ecstasy?
“Which one is my life line?” she finally asks me.
I don’t normally do this, but Blondie seems about as dense as swamp water, so I’m pretty sure I can get away with it. I choose the longest line on her palm and run my nail down it. “This is your life line,” I say. “It’s one of the longest I have ever seen.”
“Does that mean I’m going to live a long time?”
I used to tell people the truth about life lines. They don’t really reveal how long you’re going to live, even if you do buy the palm reading act. All a life line does is present the quality of and zest for life. Any breaks along the line represent major changes in a life’s timeline. But in a business where you get paid for telling lies, it doesn’t ever hurt to stretch the truth when I’m positive I’m not going to get caught. Besides, Blondie is looking like she’s going to tip so well that I’ll be able to take care of grocery shopping and laundry this weekend.
“Yes,” I lie. “It means you’re going to live a long and profitable life.” I touch her palm one more time. Making extra psychical connection with a client usually ensures a return visit. At the very least she’ll tell all of her girlfriends about us and we’ll have a parlor full of giddy socialites in no time.
As I’m touching her smooth skin, my vision begins to cloud, like fog on a dim morning. I grasp on to her hand, bracing myself so I don’t plummet to the ground. I try to open my eyes, but even if they are open, there is nothing but darkness.
I see her getting into her car – a pristine, sea foam colored Mustang – and pulling out of the nearby parking garage. She’s listening to some pop music disaster that I don’t recognize and checking herself out in the rearview mirror every few seconds. She reaches for her Coach bag in the passenger seat, swerving the entire vehicle. The mini-van in the right lane honks at her, but Blondie doesn’t seem bothered. She shuffles her hand in her expensive purse until she pulls out a tube of fuchsia lipstick. Blondie adjusts the rearview mirror applies the tube of color to her lips.
She’s driving down Mill Street. I recognize the ornate buildings.
The signals for the train tracks ahead are blinking, sounding off their alarm. The train is approaching, and so is Blondie. She presses her foot to the gas, as if she thinks she can beat the train. I want to scream at her, tell her she’s being a god damn idiot. She will never win this race. But I can’t make a sound, and Blondie probably wouldn’t listen to me if I could.
The sound of clashing metal fills my ears. The train takes out the entire front end of her car. Blondie and all. There is no way she could have survived.
I squeeze my eyeballs shut, not wanting to see any more of this disaster.
When I open them, I see Blondie in front of me. There’s a concerned look on her face.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “You look really sick.”
I press my lips together and try to steady my breathing. I just saw her die. “I’m… I’m fine,” I manage to breathe out, my heart thumping. I glance at the clock on the wall as I try to catch my breath. “It looks like our time is up,” I say absently, holding out my palm to collect her method of payment.
Blondie offers me a smile. A real, genuine smile. “This was super fun,” she says, reaching into her Coach purse for her wallet. “I’ll have to come visit again.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Not an agreement, or a warning, or a even a thank you, have a nice day. All I can do is watch in dismay as she leaves the parlor and gets into her shiny green Mustang.
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