[Fiction] A man’s romance with a psychic:

The psychic from the Third Base suckered drunk-me into getting a reading: twenty buckaroos. She had a table set up and was circling the bar in her hoop earrings and a fake mole that was supposed to be gypsy somehow, looking for customers. Real gypsies have a hair coming out of that mole, but hers was bald. Real gypsies don’t have breast implants either, but she had those too.

I told her, ‘Say something about me first so that I know this is for real. That’s a lot of money. Look into the shithead future real fast.’ That’s how high my expectations were.

‘You like to drink,’ she said. ‘You can’t dance. You’re looking for women.’

‘That’s not psychic,’ I said. ‘This is a loser bar.’

“What to Do?” — Sean Ennis, Swink

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