I touch the beaded curtain with shaking hands, partly because on this cold December night, I have neglected to bring gloves, and partly because, despite the deafening roar of crowds behind me, the room that lies beyond is disturbingly silent. The sign outside bears no title, no indication of what this tent holds, just a simple playing card. What lives in the tent, however, is no simple matter.
The Fortune Teller blends into the walls behind her, a wispy, black veil shielding her eyes. Candles cover every surface,casting an eerie glow on the striped tarp. She gestures for me to take a seat across from her. Thecenter of the table contains a single deck of tarot.
Without a word, she flips over the topcard.
Immediately my eyes fill with tears. I reach forward to touch the black and white picture, hands shaking even more than before. Tears well up in my eyes as memories flood in andpush me out of the tranquil tent, back into the comforting turmoil of the circus.
The Fortune Teller gentlytucks
“The Lovers” back into the deck.
“The future isn’t black and white,” she
whispers. “Often, there are shades of gray.”
A gentle, silent tear rolls down her cheek.
