Laundry Day
By Elizabeth Bernstein
It’s not the kind of day to be going to a mind reader, I’m thinking, because my mind is full of crap, of stupid details, and plants to be watered, and socks to find matches for, and my fingernails are dirty, which my mother always said was the sign of a bad person, because it’s so easy to fix, and yet they don’t, and what does that say, so my mind is crappy, it’s no good today, but my laundry is spinning and the people in there won’t look at me, on purpose, so why should I stay in there, where I’m not wanted, not noticed, the hell with these people, I’m thinking, and walking, and so that’s why I’m here, at the mind reader’s, the fortune teller’s, in the storefront next door, and she has the place done up lovely, not cold and skanky, like the laundromat, she’s got the whole thing done in lavender, with an overstuffed chair for me, covered in a drapey, satin bedspread, and the ceiling, it glitters, and she looks in her crystal ball, a big marble, solid, you could chip a tooth on it, and her hands trace the air around it, caressing, and her breasts are so huge, they rest on the table, almost, and she says, “There’s nothing but crap in here, I must be off today, I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I’m sorry, but it’s crap, it’s meaningless, nothingness, I’m getting dirt and grime and socks that are spinning, there’s no future in this ball, no future here, this has never happened to me before, I’m so sorry.”