by Michael Henrik Wynn
I was walking about the town square when I was ten. Suddenly, I noticed that somebody had parked a camper at the far end. Outside, a group of dark-skinned gypsies in colorful garments stood vigil. As I approached a middle aged woman in a fluttering red silk costume waved me inside. I was curious, and when I entered I noticed a crystal ball on the table. She then bid me take a seat and stretch out my hand. After she had examined it intensely from many angles in the scarce light, tracing each furrow, such as I had then, she fixed her deep brown eyes at me and said:
«You are not going to live long, and you are not going to have a short life….You are going to meet a very beautiful woman, and you are not going to have many children, but neither very few.»
In the next moment she let my hand slip like stone from her cold grasp. She stood up, and as her rank lean body hovered over me, the wise and mysterious fortune-teller declared:
«That will be one dollar, please.»
