“No, wait, hang on,” Harmony said quickly. “What’s today?”
“Fifty percent off Tarot Thursday,” I replied.
“Oh! My goodness. Our Thursday deal also includes spirit readings.”
“How convenient.”
“Shall I put you down for an appointment?”
I glanced at a framed photo of me and Calvin that I’d had on my desk since before we’d even moved in together, and was reminded of a quote from Marx:History repeats itself, first as tragedy, second as farce.
I wasn’t Napoleon III, but nonetheless the concept was sound—don’t be so hellbent on a goal that you blunder your way into becoming the laughingstock of history.
Taking a breath, I told Harmony, “Yes.”
East Village to Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t exactly a difficult commute, but it did involve having to get from Second to Ninth Avenue, which I surely wasn’t going to walk in this heat. Instead, I opted to sweat my nuts off in the bowels of the subway in order to hop the L crosstown before transferring to the C. The air underground was humid, stale, and reeked of piss, and the platform was hot as hell. The train itself wasn’t much better—one of those tin cans that still ran the A, C, E line—with air-conditioning that couldn’t combat the too many overheated bodies, the wretched funk of teen BO coming from a gaggle of boys shoved into the corner of the car, and I don’t want to say there was a guy yodeling somewhere in the sea of passengers, but it sure sounded like it. By the time I body-slammed my way off at Fiftieth Street, I was beyond the need for a second shower and pitied whoever stood too close to me.
I walked west to Tenth Avenue, then south a few blocks, and came to a stop outside an unassuming storefront with a display window that had been draped with a blackout curtain and nothing more. The stencil across the glass in an obnoxious cursive readMidtown Mediums. The shop was nestled between a 24-7 bodega and pub with both the pride and Irish flags hanging limp over the entrance. The psychics probably pulled in great money from the freshly graduated, working finance, ready-to-get-shitfaced-with-the-bros Friday-night crowd.
I approached the glass door and gave it a push. The bottom grated against tile as I stepped inside, a deep groove in the floor suggesting this was simply one of those idiosyncrasies of the building and money was better spent elsewhere than fixing it. I had to give the door a firm push closed to unstick it, and then I took a look around the store. Lots of candles. Lots of shiny rocks. Lots of crystal balls catching and reflecting back an inverted likeness of myself. The rugs, tablecloths, and chairs were all elaborate in their stitched patterns and gilded construction. The shop smelled of sandalwood, and playing overhead was some kind of relaxation soundtrack with a lot of gongs.
All in all, very stereotypical.
To my right, door beads were parted as a young woman with a mop of curly hair stepped into view. She was wearing averycropped crop top and shorts that were, at best, an afterthought. If she bent over, both cheeks were going to be on full display. Hell, if she reached for anything overhead, for that matter….
I must have stared for a second too long, because she flashed a smile in a way that suggested she waswell awareof the effect she had on men and was pleased to see my reaction mirrored past conquests.
“I’m gay,” I blurted, without context.
Her eyebrows rose and her smile only got bigger. “I’m Harmony.”
“No, I mean—I wasn’t staring.”
“You were a little.”
“I was appreciating an aesthetic.”
“Aesthetic?” She looked down at herself, angled one way, then the other. “Do you think I look like those chubby ladies in old paintings or something?”
“I assume you’re referring to the Baroque period in art history. And no, you don’t look like them, although a full-figured woman was considered to be the standard in beauty then.”
“They were chubby,” Harmony reiterated. “I’m not.”
“Okay, well, I have an appointment with Rose.”
Harmony’s expression brightened. “Snow, right?”
“Yeah.”
She toddled on heels to a register in the far corner, tapped a few buttons, then said, “It’ll be two hundred. Payment in full up front.”
I managed to suppress a full-body shudder as I handed over my credit card, then whispered a silent thank-you to whoever in the cosmos might have been listening that the only joint account Calvin and I had was for bills. Because I couldn’t even begin to imagine what sort of excuse I’d have to pull out of my ass if he got a look at this charge on my monthly statement.
Harmony handed back the card, gave me a receipt to sign, then motioned me to follow through the door beads and down a hall. “Rose can see you right away,” she explained. “You’re lucky she had a last-minute cancellation. Otherwise, you’d be on the waitlist.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the empty reception area. Waitlist.Right.
The hallway was claustrophobic, with low lighting and a series of doors on either side—which I had to assume were private reading rooms. How many psychics worked here? Was it a freelance sort of position? Did they rent one of these little rooms and Midtown Mediums took a portion of their sales as commission? I had so many questions about their business model.
