It feels like an eternity ago, but in reality it was only a few years ago. I think I was maybe dating A, but it might just barely pre-date him.
I was meeting Chris at Red Robin’s for supper, and something had happened. She was late. No worries. I remember though that I was seated a bit out of the main area, and I was concerned that maybe she would arrive and sit at another table to wait for me. So I kept getting up to check. A woman sitting on her own watched me with curiosity and humour. I don’t recall if I started talking to her first, or if she asked me if I was meeting someone, or what. All that I remember is that we’d barely talked when she asked, “Can I read your palm?”
I was a little surprised. She drew me in, or I saw it at the time, by saying that she had a feeling that I was a very interesting person, and she would like the opportunity to try. She had been doing it for years, she explained, but was currently taking some courses to expand her knowledge. I was intrigued. I sat down and tentatively handed over my … well, hands.
It felt very disconcerting to be sitting at a restaurant, waiting for a friend, but sitting and holding hands with a complete stranger. I resolved to ‘test’ her, and did my best to give away nothing. Simple yes or no answers unless she overtly asked something. Let’s see, I thought, what she makes of this. One of the first things she said was something akin to, “You’re a logical person, not an artist.” Okay, I thought. Fifty-fifty chances, and since this obviously is all about being able to read a person, not their palm … well, she could probably guess by my attitude and checking for Chris. There were a few other observations, most of which I half wrote off and half was impressed by. We talked about my life line – it’s not a solid line by far, more like several hundred tiny, fine, straight lines sketching out a curve. I’m blanking on the calculus/physics phrase – instantaneous velocities?
Then she paused, as if considering something. “You’re going to have to become more creative, more artsy, in your mid thirties,” she hesitantly said. Or something to that nature. I think I responded with an eloquent, “Huh?” She refused to tell me more, citing that she didn’t like to tell people too much, all that she was comfortable telling me was that I would have to learn to become more artistic. I wrote it off, almost totally (but obviously not completely, as I remember it fairly clearly), as being a hook, or her trying out some new ‘mystery’ technique. But there was no request for money, no phone number given so that I could get a “proper consultation,” or anything. That was just that. Chris arrived, I thanked the woman, we parted ways pleasantly.
Now I look around my kitchen. There are salt dough stars waiting for painting in a cookie tin while painted ones dry atop the cupboards, cinnamon and applesauce dough reindeer and bears still on their cookie sheet by the stove, a bucketful of shredded tissue paper and two sheets of aluminum foil covered in glued-down tissue paper, glass balls with glitter glue dangling from the arm of the light above the stove, and one with tissue paper glued onto it. I look at the sequence of events that brought me to this moment. Part of me admittedly has to wonder just how much that woman actually did ‘see’.