Once a gypsy in the street grabbed my hand and told me I’d live to eighty four. She was making it up, of course she was, fast-talking bullshit in a low singsong burr, my hand gripped in hers, her long curved metallic painted fingernails dragging across my palm. She wore a silver bracelet. A string of charms, tiny tarnished mementoes that hung shivering from the chain. Around us the stream of hurrying people battered the pavement smooth.
I should have taken her curtain of long black-dyed hair and pulled it aside and laid my mouth against her tanned cheek.