Cold Feet

“Tarot cards, crystal balls, tea leaves—put your trust in none of it,” she said to the couple lingering in the doorway. “I can, however, assure you that what Madame Zuluska sees is as good as gospel.”

The young woman gazed at her partner and rested her hand in the crook of his arm. He picked at the peeling blue paint of the door jam and asked, “How much?”

“How much do I know? Or how much for a reading?” replied Madame Zuluska, tapping her curved fingertips on the counter. “I can see you have trouble with confidence.”

The young woman nudged him. “A reading,” he said, “about our future.”

“So you’d like two for the price of one?”

“I guess,” he said, reaching into his back pocket.

“I do not guess, young man. I know!”

“I’ve got twenty. Is that enough?”

“For now,” said Madame Zuluska, snatching the bill from his hand and folding it into a tiny square. “Please, come sit,” she said, “and take off your shoes and socks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Madame Zuluska does not read palms. She reads feet.”

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