2
Szia,” he says,placing an enormous cello gently on the ground by the entrance and removing a royal blue scarf. The first thing that I clock is his height—six foot at the very least—and then, as he slips off his dark wool jacket, it’s the firm, round edges of his shoulders my eyes cannot be torn away from. Oh, he’s impressive. And tall.Tall.I hear the echo of the fortune-teller in my head. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and I quietly gasp under the veil. What could be more imminent than right now?
“Hallo? Hello?” he says now, looking at me, confused. I need to speak.
“Ah... um... hallo,” I say in my best attempt at a nondescriptive Central European accent. I don’t want to tell him the shop is closed. He needs to stay.
“Are you closed? Your sign says open,” he says. His voice issmooth and soft, though his accent is clipped staccato—German perhaps? I realize I am not speaking, and we are just staring at each other.
I look at the cello on the floor and then back up at him and then at theOPEN/CLOSEDsign that is turned to faceOPENonto the street. I rush forward and spin it round and then turn back to him, seeing myself in the mirror over his shoulder. He thinksI’mthe clairvoyant. Me. Of course he bloody does. Look at me.
“My sister came here and said I should come,” he says, an explanation, apparently, for why he is here. He reminds me of a younger Alexander Skarsgård, but with the kind of awkward, slightly curved posture of someone who is leaning over something. Like a cello, for example.Working with his hands.I gasp again.
“You don’t need an excuse to see a clairvoyant,” I say, wondering if I sound more Russian than Hungarian or if it even matters. “There is no shame in seeking guidance.”There.That’s very fortune-teller-like, I think.
He frowns. I notice the strength in his jaw and the full head of sandy hair that is long at the front, floppy even, as if he’s been too busy to get it cut.
His clothes tell me he’s got time to shop. This is not a quickly-duck-into-M&S-for-a-wedding-shirt kind of guy. He has money and style. He is searching my face—or rather my veil—with his head cocked to the side, his thick eyebrows lowered, like an insecure art professor, unsure if the work is genius or crap.
“We can be quick?” he suggests. He takes a step closer to me, and I step back almost automatically, afraid that he’ll see the eyes behind the veil.Thank God for the veil.He stoops to pick up the deck of cards on the little table, thumbing through them, and then places them down again, faceup so we can both see the two naked bodiesof the Lovers card. I can feel myself blush. And then when I look up at him, I see he’s also slightly mortified.
“I can do a palm reading,” I say quickly.
“Do I sit here?” he asks, pointing at the little stool, which seems comically small against his size.
I nod, and as he lowers himself onto the tiny stool, my stomach flutters.Am I doing this?I don’t know how else to keep him here. He has to move his long legs apart to reach his hand into the middle of the table. I imagine the cello resting in between his thighs, and the thought is inexplicably sexy.
I slide into the seat opposite him. When I look up, he’s looking back at me. His eyes flicker a light caramel in the low light. I tip my head up to look into them, and when I do I feel everything inside me turn to hot wax, and I have to stop myself from melting right onto the burgundy carpet. I notice the left side of his mouth rises higher than the right as he smiles with a degree of apprehension or nerves. I see a sprinkle of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and thick, heavy eyebrows, which are dark in contrast to his sandy hair. I feel another tingle down my spine.
“You play the cello?”
“Since I was seven,” he replies, “and of course I am lucky enough to play for a living.”
“That sounds like a, um, a lot of work with your hands,” I say.
“Yes,” he says with a small laugh, looking back at his cello case, “it’s definitely that.”
Tall.And, of course, he’s got many people around him. Anaudience. What else did she say? I stop for a moment and breathe out. I want to tear off the veil and explain everything to him, but I don’t. Instead, I stare, thirstily—from his leather shoes and the dark wool trousers to the black polo neck and that strong jaw.
How did the fortune-teller start? My lifeline, I think. Okay, I’m going to do this. Here we go.
“Please give me your hand,” I say, reaching forward, cursing my terribly bitten nails and flaked orange polish. As he leans forward and places his heavy hand in mine, I feel the warm sparkle as our skin touches. I catch my breath in my throat.
“What’s your name?”
“Josef,” he replies, “or Joe. Joe is fine. I only have ten minutes,” he says, looking at a large silver watch on his other wrist, “so if we could make this fast.”
I immediately think about sex and feel the heat rise in my cheeks. Fast and hungry. I wonder if that’s what it would be like with him. I nod, unable to reply for a moment.
Under the light of the flickering candle his eyes move from our hands up to me, and I feel an undeniable twist in my stomach. I bite my lip.
He rubs his free palm along his trouser leg. He’s nervous. “So, what can I ask you?”
I feel my heart beating in my chest a little, and then, panicked, I say, “It’s fortune-teller, not fortune-asker.”
“Oh. I see,” he says, nodding, smiling wryly.
“You’re at a crossroads,” I say quickly, and he looks up at me and his lips tighten. It seemed like a safe opening gambit, but I’m not a clairvoyant. When he nods, I relax a little. I look down toward his hand, turning it over a couple of times to marvel at the length of his fingers and the small, calloused circle on the tip of each. I try not to think about that large hand curled around mine. I try not to picture his arm draped around my shoulders, protecting me from the world.
