I think it was an idea that we came up with to facilitate our drinking hobby; but somehow it got out of control. The little ruse that Love and I had going on the street corner telling fortunes; it was a big hit. People would gather all around that little table where she sometimes stood and lectured with raspy screams about the lines and meridians of our palms that miraculously affect our future. I hoped at first it was just a curiosity; that her immediate success had less to do with rattling of truisms about the nature of love than just her amusing act. She often proved me wrong…
How can I expect you to keep in the timeline when I move all over the place; that’s the question? Her life, her death; I can’t seem to keep these memories in check. Everybody remembers Love?
She is the drunken shapeless midget of a metaphor that I have had the fortune of making acquaintance with. She is sharp and witty, sly and spontaneous and more or less out of control. She is the life of the party and she will sign your suicide note: any questions?
So here we are, one spring morning. It’s warm enough for people to start flocking the streets again without their mighty winter trench coats; so they look like naked moles. Large sunglasses and bright new once washed jeans make it out into the open. I spot some sneakers with some autumn leaves still clung to the bottom from last year. Everybody is buying hotdogs like it’s their first time outside; feels like a mass prison release except nobody looks horny. Even the old guys on the benches aren’t grinding their hips to any passing lady, humping in mid air. Wait till the benches warm up.
Love is duded up in this ridiculous outfit: long flowing scarves, some boas and whatever jewelry she had lying around the house. She looks less like a gypsy mystic than she does a whorish washed up actress, but people eat them both up anyway.
She starts attracting people with some photo-copied flyers that have a picture of a hand with some question marks floating around that seem to ask “what mysteries are prevalent within your palm?” It’s funny because people start to walk up and throw down a buck or two just to see what this little girl has hiding up her sleeve. At first they pass her off as a gimmick. I started to collect the money from the seat behind the table while she would close her eyes and rub some schmucks hand and show him his fortune lines.
Every wrinkle, she says, tells a story about the fate of its owner. Its life’s blueprint, all built into us to be deciphered by those gifted at seeing it.
Well apparently she was saying some impressive stuff, because that one guy would run down the street and bring back five of his friends. This would add up until we were surrounded by clueless Bobs and Mikes that were being told various shit about their lifespan and their child rearing.
What was her secret? She was Love. Bob A. asks a question about his love life and Love shoots back the perfect answer. Who is my soul mate, they would generally ask. Love would give them the name of their girlfriend/boyfriend, husband/wife. They are sitting there wide-eyed. clenching their fists, hoping to god that she will give them the name of some Swedish bikini model they have never met; but instead their future is with the complacent obese wife at home.
Though the answers are depressingly simply, the novelty of naming with first try all of her customers significant others; that’s something I couldn’t figure out. I wouldn’t be surprised if its some power that comes with being a personification that is hell bent on destroying itself.
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