Madame Stella Zamboni (or Jane Williams, according to the DMV ) artfully readjusted her shawls, her countless rings and braclets clacking and jingling against each other with every move. She stared out the window, catching a glimpse between the glowing neon letters of her sign of two girls sucking down Grande Frappuccinos, tottering down the sidewalk in absurdly tall high heels as they chatted.

Another five minutes passed, and she drummed the carefully lacquered fingers of her left hand against the tabletop. Her right hand cupped her cheek, carefully not smudging the glitter, rouge, and other cosmetics applied to her face. She had to look young and mysterious, after all. The fortune teller nervously started bouncing her knee, the many layers of her flowing skirts rustling against each other, the bells on her anklets tinkling.

Madame Zamboni just couldn’t fathom why she was getting fewer and fewer clients by the day. Apparently, her psychic vibes hadn’t gathered that everybody knew she was a fraud.