Monday, 08 November 2004 | Palm reader

I sort of hated the palm reader. I don't really know why I went (it wasn't faith, or even a need to know the future). I think I went because it seemed like a nicely dumb thing to do on a 30th birthday, and because I had a mild curiosity about what goes on behind the glowing red letters.

We sat in soft chairs in the store front window (which I found slightly embarrassing), and she explained the services on offer. It was at that moment that I realized I didn't actually want any of the services; I simply wanted to experience the novelty. I chose the cheapest option and held out both of my palms. (They tired quickly, unnaturally uncurled in that way.)

She glanced at my hands from her seat (never taking them into her own hands, which I was glad about), and she began talking, quickly. She wore street clothes (rather than hoop earrings and dripping layers of purple silk), and she looked bored. Her accent was tinted with Spanish.

My mind kept drifting, because I didn't really care what she was talking about, and was in fact ready for it to be over. After each "assessment," she'd ask, "Is that right?" I'd respond with an "I guess so" or an "Uh, not really." She told me I was going to die of old age, and that I "keep things inside."

Sometimes I didn't quite understand what she was asking, so I just started making up answers, just to get it over with. Occasionally she'd assure me that she already knew the answers to the questions she posed (but of course). I wondered if the lines on my palms revealed that I thought she was making stuff up.

"Do you have any questions for me?" She asked at the end of her performance. I declined, not knowing what I could possibly ask, and not really caring what more she had to say. I think this makes me a bad sport.

Five minutes total. A quick $15. The bored talking to the bored.