When I lived in Boston a psychic set up shop down the street from my apartment. I have to admit, I was curious. Not about my future but curious about why this woman thought it was a good idea to open a psychic shop right in the heart of Janksville surrounded by college students who were more concerned with spending their dollars on beer than questions of destiny. Obviously she knew something the rest of us didn’t.


Her presence in the neighborhood became more known when she left her crystal ball behind to market her shop on foot. At first she started passing out business cards in front of her shop. Then, she took a subtler approach by sitting in her doorway and asking anyone passing by if they wanted their fortunes told.

I got asked that question approximately half a million times.


She might have been absolutely excellent at predicting the future, able to tell me exactly what I was going to eat for breakfast on my forty-sixth birthday and what I will name the dog I’m going to adopt five years, three days, one hour, seven minutes, and thirty-three seconds from now. I could have taken her up on her promise of knowledge one of the many times she asked me, flinging my groceries to the side and following her to her crystal ball and tarot cards.


I’m someone who stays off social media the day after I miss an episode of my favorite show in order to avoid spoilers. I read books one page at a time, never even tempted to peer at the last page and find out what happens. I suffer through because I despise spoilers.

I always feared that one of the times I brushed her off she would reply “doesn’t matter anyway. You’re not going to be around much longer” or something cryptic and to that effect.


I mean if I kept trying to offer random strangers knowledge that they probably didn’t really want and they continued to shoot me down, I might get a little annoyed and snap too.

But she didn’t. My future is still a mystery. I don’t know if I’ll have eggs and bacon or french toast on the morning of my forty-sixth birthday. Maybe I won’t even have breakfast at all. As for the dog, I’m still wavering between Chewbacca and Kal-el for the name. We’ll see how I feel five years, three days, one hour, six minutes, and three seconds from now

It’s the future. Anything can happen.



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