High C

1. The End (Part 1)

Gwyn Sticks Predicts! Everything on Sale!

That's what the sign in the psychic's shop window claimed. Just beneath it, another sign, its hours of operation slots left blank in favour of a large, days-of-the-week defying question mark, was being gawked at by a faded sticker, one of a pair of shocked googly-eyes.

It wasn't without some sense of humour that Natasha Loy realized the sticker was in fact a reflection of her own eyes, frantic for a moment thinking the shop might be closed. Surely it would strike her as being hilarious later when she was no longer anxious for Gwyn's other-worldly wisdom and desperately late for drinks with her sister, the ever-prompt, DeeDee. It might even win her some sympathy as she pretended to be sorry for being late. DeeDee would know better, of course, but she'd accept an apology anyway because being her baby sister was the only excuse Natasha ever needed for anything. The grovelling was more or less a courtesy. Still, insincere guilt would have to wait. For now, what Gywn Sticks would predict was an all consuming matter, and Natasha would wait until the cows came home to hear it, especially if one of those cows was actually a steer named Rodney.

No sooner had she let herself into the shop did she nearly bump into Gwyn's exiting last appointment, a gentleman of no distinct features but a faint aura of disappointment. Better luck next time, she thought, hopeful that she was the next time and right on cue a cascade of brightly beaded curtains parted and there her fortune teller stood.

She had a slender, sloping face which, for all its movements, came always to rest in an expression of comical indifference. Natasha once had the thought she looked like a door knocker, which now, of course, she always saw. The image seemed highly appropriate for someone who claimed to bear no responsibility for a guest's experience beyond serving as a liaison to the other side. Little else about her appearance suggested the standard psychic mould. She wore no scarves in her short, gift basket-straw hair. No ornate jewels burdened her fingers; no brilliantly patterned kaftans hypnotized her beholders. Gwyn Sticks, it could be said, was fond of a jumpsuit. Today's was khaki and she posed in it for Natasha with the same sort of serious enthusiasm a catalogue model might at a photo shoot.

"Do you like it? They just delivered it."

"It's really cute," Natasha said, just happy to be in her presence.

"I probably should've waited till I was done with that guy to try it on. He said he liked it, but I could tell he didn't."

"Then he has no taste, but I'm glad your antenna's up."

Natasha grinned excitedly, impatient for Gwyn's cue to follow her to the back room. The psychic remained where she was, however, making a sawing motion with the sides of her hands along the tops of her thighs.

"Is it weird how this cuts me in my groin?"

"Uh, I didn't really..."

"It's not exactly camel-toe."

"No," Natasha agreed quickly.

"But it's something. Maybe kinda like a kangaroo pouch? I mean if there was a text book in it." Gwyn turned out her knees and thrust her pelvis forward.

Desperate to emit the vibe of someone who cared and did not want to scream, Let's go already!!!, Natasha shrugged and said breezily, "Maybe you just have to work it in a bit."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Gwyn said with a self-mocking snort. "Ok, enough about my crotch. Come on in. Tell me if they make too much noise when I walk. They're recycled parachutes."

At last, through the beaded curtains, Natasha was led to the reading room she remembered so well. It displayed none of the cliché psychic props its entrance suggested it would. Where one might expect crystal balls or candles or sequined fabrics draped over lamps there were instead flower vases, romantic watercolours, and a table set for tea if leaves needed to be read for further insights. True, the room was lined in a red felt-textured wallpaper, but if anything it made for a comfortable, homey vibe, even if perhaps that home had once belonged to a Victorian parlour house madam. Gwyn gestured for Natasha to take a seat at the table while she, like a feather on a stubborn breeze, seemed to float the long way around to her own spot opposite her guest.