She stopped in front of the crafts shop, examining something in a display basket out in front of the store. I wondered if she planned to swipe it. I walked around her.

Before that: “No thanks,” I said. “Is powerful talisman,” she said. “Will protect you from your enemies, who caused your traffic accidents with their bad wishes.” “Seriously, no thanks,” I said. She shrugged and walked off, not really in a huff, but I wondered if now I had made a third enemy, a fortune-teller who was going to curse me now.

Before that: She extracted a little embroidered coin purse from her larger purse and removed a pinch of herbs, held them up for me to smell. I smelled nothing. “See, smell that? Powerful herbs, brother” she said. I nodded. “Powerful, okay,” I said. She put the herbs into the little square of paper she had begged from the cleaner and folded it up into a tiny package. “You add a little salt and a little bread. You don’t eat it, just carry it in your pocket to protect you.” She took out a little wooden rosary, asked me my name and said a long prayer over the package, including my name. “Here,” she gave me the package. “How much do you want to give me for it? It will protect you.” I shook my head. “I already gave you five Euro,” I said. “That was for the palm reading,” she said.

Before that: She didn’t let go of my hand. “There’s more. You are happy now, but you have enemies. No, you have two enemies. Intriguing against you, wishing you ill.” “No fooling?” I said. “Wishing you and your family ill. You need protection.”

Before that: Over her shoulder, I saw the dry cleaner cashier wore a bemused expression on her face. We both ignored her. The fortune-teller took my hand. Her hands were warm. “Don’t worry, my color won’t come off on you, my hands are clean,” she said. “Same here,” I said. “My hands are clean too.” “You have a happy life,” she said. “You don’t have a lot of money, but you don’t care about money. Family, happiness are more important to you.” “That’s correct,” I said. “How do you know that?” “It’s all in your hand,” she said. “You are not too worried. You don’t have worries. Your forehead is smooth.” I can tell your fortune too, I thought. You are an outcast, I thought. You have had a run-in with the police — I had seen her picture in the newspaper a couple years ago, when she (or someone a lot like her) and an accomplice had been arrested for bilking a woman out of thousands of Euro with a protection-from-bad-luck scam. You have lost children, I thought, to death, or to life. You are very short, and very old, and very scary-looking, I thought. “You have a scar,” she said. “Is it on the left side or the right side?” “Amazing, dude, I have scars all over,” I said. “You have had a traffic accident. No injuries, only damage to the car.” “Twice,” I said. “My fault both times.” She nodded sagely. “You are married, but not to your great love.” Wrong, I thought, but I played along. “Why not? Divorce? Something else?” she asked. “Just didn’t work out,” I said. She nodded some more. “You had worries about your children. Health, or school.” Boy, right there, I thought. They were both tiny preemies. “They’re fine now, though,” I said. “You have golden hands, you can do anything with your hands.” “Thanks,” I said. I sure hoped she was right about that, I had to make a bunch of sushi later in the day for guests who were coming over. And gyoza, and yakisoba, etc etc. My turn came and I picked up my suits, paid, palmed a five Euro bill from the change. “Here, come outside, I’ll read your palm some more,” she said. I gave her the money.

Before that: I went into the dry cleaners to pick up my suits. I was third in line, two ladies were in there before me, a sixtyish Austrian woman who picked something up, and a tiny old Gypsy. The Gypsy was taking sweets out of an Easter basket on the counter. “That’s enough, now,” the cashier said. “Just a couple more,” she said with a thick Eastern-European accent. “I have kids, kids have to eat sugar,” she continued shoveling chocolate eggs and bunnies into her purse until the cashier removed the basket. “Could I have a bag for the candy?” the old woman asked. No one was looking at the old woman. We all avoided eye-contact. This I found crappy, so I stopped avoiding eye-contact. “We don’t have any bags.” “Give me a piece of paper, then.” The cashier gave her a tiny square of note paper. The old woman turned to go, then approached me. “Give me your hand,” she said. Alright, I thought. Gypsy palm-reader.

Before that: “Your eyebrows are turning white,” my hair stylist said. “I noticed,” I said. She held up a big hand mirror so I could see my hair all over. I nodded sagely. Big deal, a pig shave is a pig shave, even if it takes forty-five minutes and includes a soporific scalp massage and is called a styling. Main thing is: it’s short because Gamma loves to run her hands over it when it’s good and short. Nothing like a six-year-old girl running her hands over your scalp with an expression of glee on her face, is there? (Later when I got home and she did it, she said, “Now the hair on your head is shorter than the hair on your back.” A couple minutes after that, I had my wife shave my back.) My cell phone rang. It was my wife. She told me to go here and there to get some stuff; “and you could pick up the drycleaning too,” she said. “But hurry, we have a lot of cooking to do.”

Before that: She wasn’t happy I was leaving to get a haircut, because we had guests coming over later in the day. “It will only take a jiffy,” I said. She looked skeptical. As if she thought something unusual would happen if she let me go out by myself.