A soul across from me sits on me, extinguishing her tarot cards like her lifeline. Her appearance - half mysterious, half train wreck. A faded scarf around her neck, mismatched earrings, dressed like that kind of woman who doesn't mind her oddness. Even prefers it.
We meet in a mostly empty café - just the way I like it. I ask to interview her out of curiosity. She starts to speak, her voice low and slow, as if she wants me to grasp the darkest secrets, her eyes sparkling like elsewhere as she gazes into the distance.
“The cards, they still amaze me,” she murmurs. “I don’t know how they do it over the years, but they tell the truth.” There’s a flicker in her voice - maybe it’s disbelief, or just hard to believe she’s still doing this.
I ask her how she prepares for a reading. She leans in, her voice dropping a bit, telling me how she connects with guides, seeking their help.
“There’s a Native American guy and a Native woman who always show up in my meditations. When they’re there, it’s like flipping a switch, suddenly I’m tuned into something stronger.”