Sure enough, he’d sent it to a girl at work, amidst a whole flurry of flirty activity. When confronted with it, he’d admitted to some “minor indiscretions,” the details of which I hadn’t wanted to know. He said they didn’t sleep together, begged forgiveness, and promised to try harder, and after some thought, I forgave him and we moved on.
After all, ten years was a long time, and I hated to think we’d wasted it on each other if we weren’t going to make things work for the long haul. All relationships take work. Plus, I loved him and he loved me. We knew each other inside and out. We were comfortable together, had the same dreams for the future, had the same taste in music, sports, and takeout food. Those were important things, right? People had probably gotten married for worse reasons. Dan and I were compatible. Comfortable. Certainly not as passionate as we once were, and way less hot for each other than Skylar and Sebastian, but after ten years together, is it even possible to sustain that?
I asked myself that question a lot.
A lot.
“Come on, Nat. It’ll be fun!” Skylar thumped me on the back as I passed her. “Live a little, why don’t you! You’re always so fucking sensible.”
“I’m not being sensible, I’m being hungry. But fine, whatever. I hope the psychic has a bathroom otherwise I see wet pants in my future.” Marching through the door, I followed Jillian up the narrow staircase beyond it. “It smells like cat pee in here,” I whispered. At least I tried to whisper, but I was still inebriated so it came out a little louder than intended, and Jillian shushed me.
At the top of the stairs were two doors. The one on the right said 2B, but the one on the left had a sign on it:
Madam Psuka
Psychic, Medium, Clairvoyant, Intuitive
Palm Readings, Dream Analysis, Spiritual Channeling, & Numerology
FIRST READING FREE*
*does not include Spiritual Channeling
Jillian sighed. “Fucking spirits. So expensive all the time.”
I laughed, crossing my legs at the ankle and squeezing my thighs together. “That’s it. No one make any jokes until I find a bathroom.”
“Do you think you pronounce that P in her name?” Skylar wondered. “Like, is it Madam Puh-suka?”
“No.” Jillian looked back at Skylar with what we call her You’re Dumb and I’m a Doctor face. “You don’t say puh-sychic, do you?” Suddenly she looked down at the big wet spot on her boob. “Shit. When did that happen?”
Moaning in agony even as I laughed, I bent my knees and cupped my crotch as Jillian knocked. “I’m going to wet myself. I’m totally puh-serious.”
Immediately the door opened and an acrid, smoky smell drifted into the hallway. The woman who’d opened the door looked nothing like what I’d imagined a psychic medium would look like—no purple turban or chunky gold jewelry or flouncy ruffled skirt. In fact, she looked more like an evening newscaster: blond helmet hair, too much makeup, horn-rimmed glasses. She was barefoot and wore jeans and a flowy black top.
“Velcome,” she said in a thick accent. At least she sounded like a medium. She looked at each of our faces as we tried to stop snickering and appear presentable, which wasn’t that easy since I was still holding my crotch, Jillian was trying to cover her left nipple, and Skylar hiccuped. “Hm. Three sisters.”
Skylar poked me in the back, as if she were impressed, but I thought we looked enough alike that anyone could tell we were related, even though Jillian was dark-haired and built more like our dad, tall and thin, while Skylar and I were blonde and curvy like our mom.
“I am Madam Psuka,” she said grandly, pronouncing the P. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Skylar poke Jillian in the shoulder. “Vould you like reading tonight?” Madam Psuka’s eyes narrowed. “I am getting verrrry strong energy from you.”
“Yes.” Skylar clapped her hands.
“Vonderful. Please to come in.” The woman stepped aside and we entered a small, dimly lit front room. I was about to ask vhere the bathroom vas when color and texture and warmth bombarded me. The walls were covered in tapestries, rugs, and blankets in every imaginable hue and pattern. The windows overlooking the street were covered in dozens of sheer jewel-toned scarves, several of which billowed in the early summer breeze. In front of them was a round table covered with a Moroccan print cloth with a chair on each side. The floor was covered by faded Persian rugs in tones of ruby and gold and coral, and large square pillows in royal blue, hot pink, lime green, and leopard print lined the walls. On every available surface not covered with books, and sometimes even on top of the books, candles glowed—most inside lanterns, but some in glass holders or simply set on a plate. From the ceiling hung swooping strands of beads and charms and other trinkets, criss crossing the room clothesline style, and in the two front corners were huge green plants. My eyeballs hurt.
“Wow,” said Skylar, turning in a slow circle. “This is amazing.”
“Thank you,” replied Madam Psuka, although the foreign way she pronounced the “th” sound made it sound more like tank you, which was highly appropriate tonight. She shut the door. “I am not here very long, but I try to make the space my own.”