See over there, inside that little brick-walled shop on Kensington Street? That’s me, with the unevenly-cut jet-black hair and long dress, rearranging jars of goat eyes for the tenth time this hour. The hair nor the compulsive organizing are by choice. The former is thanks to a spell gone sour, which resulted in sentient scissors seeking to punish me for bending them once when I needed to jimmy a lock. The latter is due to the fact that when I’m anxious or impatient, I clean. And this morning, the place is spotless. No dust on the mahogany shelves. None of the letters are crooked on the sign advertising my specialty, palm readings for love life predictions. The storefront window sparkles from a mixture of amethyst powder and dove feathers (try it sometime, it’s way more effective than Windex).

My cat, Dorito, pets herself with my leg. She looks up at me with yellow eyes and meows. 

“I’m just on edge because I’ve only had four customers come in all week,” I say.

Another meow.

“No, the rent can’t be paid with mushroom tears. Humans only want money.”

Money, and to be told that the man or woman of their dreams is just right around the corner. At least, they used to. It seems like most people nowadays would rather go to a relationship coach, or a marriage therapist or, Hades forbid, use dating apps. I shudder. What even is a “Tinder”? 

I crouch down to scratch Dorito behind the ear. She purrs appreciatively.

“They just don’t understand our craft, do they? The studying, the learning, the connection, the passion, the tradition. All boiled down to _hocus pocus_.”

Dorito follows me as I weave through the store and search for something else to clean, something else to fix, because I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix my lack of clientele or the small part of me deep inside that is getting tired of palm readings altogether. Despite my little tirade about cherishing witchcraft, I have to confess, dedicating the majority of my life to helping others fall in love has taken a toll on me. Most nights, body wrapped in cold sheets and head lying on a tear-stained pillow, my heart aches with the question: When will it be my turn? 

A jingling sound pulls me out of my thoughts and tells me that someone has entered the store. 

“What can I do for you?” I ask the man.

The first thing I notice about him are the bloodshot eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses. And then that those glasses balance precariously on the tip of his Roman nose. Everything else about him appears equally distraught, from his disheveled hair to the untied, muddy laces on his shoes.

“You’re Madeline, right? Your sign said you help people with their love lives.” 

He sounds out of breath, like he ran here.

Without a second thought, I say, “Have a seat. Would you like some moondust tea?”

Even though it hurts, when it comes down to it, I can’t turn away someone who’s asking for help.

The tall, frazzled man, whom I have come to know as Caleb, sips his tea with a shaky hand and taps his foot to an unknown rhythm as I prepare to read his palms. The smell of burning sage fills the air, cleansing the room. I light candles with my fingertips and place them around the circular table. He intently watches me wave my arms and whisper an ancient chant, but I see no judgment behind his eyes, only curiosity. And maybe a little desperation. 

Smiling, I ask, “May I see your left hand?”

I trace my thumb along the almost zigzag-like crease on his palm that leads to his ring finger. Pressing down gently, I feel the tension reflected in his facial features.

“Have you parted ways with a partner recently?”

His eyebrows raise. “Yes. Yes, I did. My girlfriend, well, ex-girlfriend, she cheated on me.”

The hurt in his voice makes me wince. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He lets out an awkward half-chuckle that fails to cover up how he really feels. “Could we focus on my future for now, though?”

“Of course.”

As we continue the session, I feel his hand becoming warmer and warmer in mine. This isn’t uncommon during palm readings, but toward the end, it almost feels like electricity is passing between us.

“Where might I meet her?” He asks after I tell him that he may soon get another chance at love.

I close my eyes, willing a vision to present itself to me.

“I see books. And an object or a person falling. Maybe you will meet at a library or place of study.”

He nods slowly. Then he glances at something behind me, and his features soften. 

“A black cat. Classic.”

I shrug. “Some stereotypes are pretty accurate.”

Dorito inches closer to him, seemingly assessing Caleb. He reaches down to scratch under her chin. Pleased, she jumps into his lap.

I laugh. “Caleb this is Dorito, Dorito meet Caleb. I named her that since a bag of Dorito chips was the only way to lure her out of the abandoned building I found her in.”

“Adorable,” Caleb says, but he’s not looking at the cat anymore.

The week later, I hang upside down from my balcony, rubbing the silver star-shaped pendant on my necklace to summon my Uncle Donovan. He appears seconds later, butter knife in one hand, burnt toast just as he likes it in the other.

“I was just in the middle of making lunch, what’s the matter?” He asks.

Horns and three-foot-long goatee ignored, one might confuse him for a librarian, with his brown loafers and cardigan hanging from his narrow shoulders.

“When I was little, did I ever show signs of having another talent besides reading palms?” I ask.

Floating in the air, Uncle Donovan leans back pensively. “You were a funny little girl. Very creative, very loving of everyone and everything. I remember drying your tears one day after you had accidentally stepped on a beetle.”

I laugh. “I think I remember that too. I was playing in the garden, right?”

“Yes, taking fallen petals and dirt and rainwater and trying to make potions. Curiously, the love potions had the best success rate.”

“Maybe I’ll—”

I stop my sentence short. The wind blows a warm, vanilla-scented breeze, and Uncle Donovan disappears. I think about him and my childhood the whole walk to the flea market.

There, I let myself be carried by the steady stream of people to the center of the plaza. We pass by stands upon stands displaying the most unique items our town has to offer. Jewelry once worn by royals. War relics. Vintage clothing. Intricate tapestries. It’s never-ending, like my love for the place itself. I’ve been coming here since I was a tiny tot with chubby cheeks and scrapes on my knees. Over the years, it has grown to take up a special place in my heart.

Beside an elaborate fountain with water cascading from the mouths of marble gargoyles, I find the small stand that I have been looking for. The smell and smoke of incense wrap me in a hug as I head to the back. For nearly an hour, I lose myself among the messy stacks of spell books. It’s only when I notice a familiar head of disheveled brown hair peeking out from above a makeshift bookshelf that I’m brought back down to earth. A tapping sound confirms that it’s Caleb. A fluttering sensation fills my stomach as I round the bend to greet him. 

“Hi,” I say.

I must have startled him because he flinches and nearly drops the thick book that’s cradled in his arms. Tilting my head, I read the spine, _The History of Palm Reading. _

He gives me a warm smile that lights up his handsome face. “Hi, Madeline.”

He seems more put-together now. Much-needed sleep has cleared his once-bloodshot eyes. He wears a combination of a wrinkle-free T-shirt and jeans. 

Caleb reaches out to brush something off the shoulder of my blouse.

“Cat fur,” he explains and I chuckle, feeling that same electricity as last week.

_Maybe it’s my turn_, I think to myself. And even if it’s not, if I still have to wait a little longer, I will always have Dorito and Uncle Donovan and my shop and this flea market and all the other little things that bring me joy. No matter what happens next, I will always feed birds from my hands, avoid stepping on beetles as best as I can, dance under full moons, and continue practicing my crafts.