On the Cards

Years of use has given the cards a worn and gritty texture making them easy to shuffle. They flicker through my fingers quick as moth wings, their colors flashing like an old movie reel. She watches with fish-eyed curiosity, hands twisting in her lap. As she leans toward me a swath of black hair falls across her shoulder to brush across the table.

With a deft flick I snap a card facedown onto the table; she jumps. I catch her eye and smile. She gives a nervous laugh. I draw out another  four cards, slapping each one face down between us. With insipid slowness born of years of practice I begin turning the cards. Three of Cups. Temperance. The Hierophant. Eight of Swords. The Hanged Man. She clears her throat and swallows.

Fortune. They always ask: Will I get married? Am I successful? Does he love me? I never know. I read their faces, see the need etched in the shape of their bones, the bow of their lips, the creases around their eyes. I always lie. I'd rather lie and get paid than be truthful and homeless.

Besides, No one wants what I have. Not even me. I don't see if people become famous, or poor, or married, or childless. All I've ever seen is how people die. This black haired beauty here, like some modern day snow white with her lips so red and wet, well, she'll die in a snow storm. Gets hit by a van because the driver doesn't see her. He's on  parole. Armed robbery. He panics, puts her body in the back and buries her 367 miles away. She is immortalized on the side of a milk carton at the age of twenty-seven. Fortune. You can ask me anything but don't ask me that. 

Words: 300

Image courtesy of Eirian-stock