A shallow night last week. I was on my way home, taking the route near the fair grounds when I stopped. In the dark, near an oak, there was a wooden shack. I peeked inside and found a warm glow. There was the shadow of a Chinese man sitting, throwing coins. "Fortune." he said. I was drunk, but managed to formulate a question while maintaining that strange kind of concentration necessary when approaching The Book of Changes.
I thought about her and her friends and how disappointed I'd been to meet them all. Luckily the fortune teller did not even let me finish. He responded in a voice a thousand years old, interrupting the idea of her like a puff of smoke at an 8-year-old's birthday party:
"There is nothing to be found here of what one is looking for."
And I knew I could trust myself again.
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