The cards are fanned out. My future might be a lost game of solitaire, spread there. The psychic has begun to seem irresolute. Heart, spade, diamond, club: seven rows, seven in each row, plus three is 52. Will my wife leave me for a six-man Marine color guard? Should I sell pork bellies long? Never mind that: will my new novel bring fame, fortune, and the love of painted women?
It’s a dark winter afternoon: at any season, here. His small apartment, strewn not furnished, has been done up in all colors of the spectrum—from light brown to dark brown. I wait: this place could give me a contact low. The psychic is cautious: has my death announcement been withheld pending notification of relatives? Then he will touch one card and say:
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