A wooden sign abbreviates the skyline with letters painted in black, back-dropped against chipped white paint, advertising Tarot readings for 40.00 dollars. The reading’s value is determined by the cost of knowing the future vs. no knowledge of what is to come. A mystery vague as the monetary cycle, an invisible ouroboros, an American Dream. 

In-Fact an American flag is displayed on the wall of the fortune teller’s business. Beneath it reads the proclamation: these colors don’t run. Life is a jog, not a sprint, or is that time? Or both? Equals. 

A woman entered the shop during mid-day and paid for her karma with loose change and singles.  She was anxious. She picked off skin flakes detailing a scar, set along her forearm. She left them as a souvenir after it was revealed that soon large sums of cash would come into her possession. 

Late in the afternoon a cop entered the business. He was taking his lunch break when he happened upon the place, searching for a Subway. The fortune teller confirmed that his weight loss would net him a new spouse. The officer swept his arm across the table in celebration, which removed the flesh glitter from the table, onto his lap. White specks assembled on the navy blue fabric like a fractured constellation. He left with an omnipotent promise adorned to his crotch. 

At night the fortune teller sleeps in the apartment above their store. They leave the window open, often confusing dead leaves skipping over the sidewalk for low impact fireworks blowing up and out. In the morning traffic noise functions as an alarm. They have no sense of time, but for what’s to come.