The world of business doesn’t prepare you for everything, least of all psychic readings under duress. I say duress not because of Lupita’s quiet insistence, nor because of Abuela Cruz’s imposing presence despite her advanced age. It wasn’t even the oppressive quiet and stillness of the apartment. Lupita’s cousins, two hulking specimens of why tattoos are scary, glaring from the corner took care of the ambiance.

“Hello abuela, or, ah, buenos dias. Hey guys, Juacinto, isn’t it? Been a while since that birthday party. Lupita sure has grown, hasn’t she? I mean, that is, as a person. Right? Wow, this place hasn’t changed…which is great, really. Nothing like consistency.” Yeah, that was me, utterly incapable of shutting my fool mouth. Nobody else said a thing.

Abuela looked tired, her hair now streaked with gray. As one more tear found its away among the wrinkles of her face she nodded. Then something heavy, wooden maybe, thumped into the back of my head, removing me from the awkward situation.