I went to a fortune teller yesterday. I wasn't sure what I wanted to accomplish. A sense of direction maybe, or some meaning to some life, if not my own. I thought I'd learn a thing or two, things not visible in the dog-eared textbooks or solvent fumes of my everyday life. Maybe I just wanted some company for a half hour, and a respite from the dogged wind, even if it came at the price of $15 and shameless lies. Maybe I wanted someone to hold my hand, even if it was to trace the creases on my palm, or to look at me kindly, even if it was through a crystal ball.
She told me to measure my friendships in stars, in whispers, in misspelled words. That the best stories are made from raw emotion and half-baked ideals, and the best people don't know the difference. She told me about her dog and how it was put down because it attacked a girl to save her from something only it saw. And she told me about the apple pies browning in the oven that she would never eat, because they were too cliché, and she didn't like apples anyways. We went out for frozen yogurt later.
I didn't mind that it was all a sham. Maybe she was lonely too. And I thought maybe the best way to keep people was to not even try.
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