An Acorns Flash Fiction Feature
By: R.S. Nelson
The woman stretches her long, wrinkled hands across the table and flips the next Tarot card. “The Fool,” she says, and does a theatrical flourish before placing it next to the Ten of Swords. She frowns after turning over the upside-down Magician. Then the Three of Swords and The Devil, and finally The Star card, all aligned in the shape of a triangle, a spread I had never seen. She pauses, and I’m not sure if she does it for dramatic effect or because the cards are in fact that bad. She lifts her weathered face, her dark eyes narrowed, and I wonder if the cards are telling her what is happening in my life, or if she’s “reading” it in my disheveled hair and puffy eyes.
“Hmm.”
“What is it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“These cards. What is happening in your life, young lady?”
I stifle a smirk. Not only I’m not a ‘young lady,’ but does she really want me to make her job easier? Give her all the answers?
She waits a beat for a reply and when she doesn’t get it, she cocks her head and says, “You already know what’s happening. Don’t you?” Not really a question, more like a statement.
I hold still.
She leans closer, her eyes slit. “If you already know the answers, why did you come here?”
“One of my friends recommended you,” I say, avoiding her gaze, afraid that shame will creep onto my face. “She said that you helped her when her husband cheated on her. She said that…” I look at my hands, trying to find the right words. “She said you gave her a…potion to help her get him back.”
“I see.” She crosses her arms and leans back in her chair, which makes the wooden floors creak. Neither of us says another word and after a while, I fidget in my seat and wriggle my hands. I believe we’re playing a game, one where I must either beg or persuade her to help me. But I’m tired of playing, so I don’t. I sit straight and raise my chin, reminding myself that I’m the one paying.
I wait for her to say something, but she just stares at the cards, as if she’s reading a book in another language, one that I can’t decipher.
Suddenly, the pressure of the small room is suffocating, and heat is sweltering up my cheeks. I worry that I’m going to have a hot flash. Not here, please. I look around, trying to find a window to open or a fan nearby. But there’s no fan, and the closest window is tightly shut, the hinges covered with cobwebs. There’s a shelf with a bunch of vials and liquids in containers, crystals and books, but nothing else. Why did I let Betty convince me to come here?
“Would you like some water, dear?”
I realize she had been watching me, her green eyes focused on my flushed face, the wrinkles on her forehead deepening. I’m afraid of grabbing anything from her, but the idea of a glass of cold water is too enticing.
“Yes, please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
As soon as she leaves, I use my hands to fan myself but it’s not enough to provide the needed relief. I rummage through my Louis Vuitton looking for anything that can help me, and I find a pharmacy receipt, the one for the hot flash medication that I’ve been taking to no avail. I fold it and move it rhythmically, my face and neck welcoming the cold air.
She comes back with a glass of iced water. I look at the ice cubes greedily, wanting to shove them inside my blouse, but I settle to drink the cold, refreshing liquid instead. She waits until I gulp all the water before saying, “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Why?” I place the glass on the table with a thud. “My friend said…”
“Your friend, whoever she is, was in a different situation than yours. Right?”
“I-I don’t know,” I fib.
“Yes, you do.” She stabs the cards with a long, red nail. “The upside-down Magician, the card for a con man looking out for himself. The Ten of Swords, big trouble. The Three of Swords, too many people in a relationship. The Fool, well….” She cocks her head and raises an eyebrow, and I feel my cheeks flushing again.
I think of Betty, who was indeed in a different situation. Her husband cheated on her, once. She had little kids. She still loved him. He still loved her too and was, apparently, truly sorry for what happened. Told her he didn’t love the woman, that it was a mistake. But Carlos, my Carlos… he never said sorry.
And it wasn’t the first time.
I can feel the woman’s eyes on me, dissecting me like a bug under a microscope.
“So, dear, the question here is: Why would you?”
“Why would I what?” I say, confusion—and a hint of defiance—in my voice.
“Why would you want him back?”
I wince, and think of something to say, anything that would make sense to her. I can’t say because I love him; that wouldn’t be the truth. Should I say it’s because we’ve been together for over thirty years and raised four kids together? Or because he owes me, after I helped him to get through school and start his own company, putting my own needs and dreams aside to help him reach his dreams, taking care of his needs? Or simply because I hate the idea of being discarded like an old mop? And for his twenty-something year old secretary, for Christ’s sakes, someone who wasn’t even bornwhen we got married.
She’s still looking at me, waiting for an answer, not a drop of sweat on her, her wrinkled face serene.
I let my shoulders drop and fiddle with the giant rock on my finger. “I don’t know,” I confess.
She smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I chuckle. I can’t help it. I am the fool, believing I can bring him back. And for what? To have him cheat on me again? To wake up alone in my bed. day after day, the sheets covered in sweat and tears? Is that what I truly want?
As if reading my thoughts, she asks, “Well?”
I lean toward the woman, my stretched hands making creases on the red tablecloth, the tips of my fingers touching the upright Star card. It shows the image of a naked woman bathing in water, her arms stretched out toward the sky, a bright star above her head. She looks liberated, carefree, happy.
“Do you have anything for hot flashes?”
The woman leans forward, a smile arousing, the corners of her wise eyes forming a universe of wrinkles. “Dear, I have just what you need.”
About the Author:
R.S. Nelson (she/her) is a Latina writer. Her work has appeared in over twenty publications, including BULL, Flash Fiction Magazine, Twin Bird Review, SciFiSat, the Mission Viejo Library first anthology, the podcast “Tales to Terrify,” and elsewhere.