“Amazing,” he answers lightly. “Trying traditional food in every country we visit… that’s what I was most excited about.”
“Food,” I muse, letting the word linger. “It’s only part of the fun. What about the trinkets and souvenirs?” I brush my fingers over the paper bags, making them rustle softly.
“I wasn’t expecting to go shopping on any of our trips, to be honest,” he says, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Then we’ll make this a thing,” I declare before the thought fully crystallizes in my brain. “The flea market was the bottom of the well—in a good sense. Usually, I shop at better places.”
“Was this a test?” he asks, amusement threading his tone. The melancholy from before is barely a shadow now. “Am I worthy of moving further?”
“I wasn’t intending to make it a test,” I admit. “But it came out that way. And yes, I think you deserve to move on to something better.” I sweep my gaze over him from head to toe, then stab my fork into the smiley face, scoop a bite, and bring it to my lips. “If you don’t get killed, that is.”
“Can I ask why you love this so much? The clothes and trinkets.”
I sneer. “Who doesn’t love nice shopping?”
“You’d be surprised. Most people find it tedious. Some don’t enjoy it at all.”
“Those are some psychopaths,” I say, voice muffled by the food in my mouth.
He snorts. “Can’t argue with that.”
I lean back in my seat, taking a moment to contemplate whether I want to start this. “My mother,” I finally begin. “She was a cunt, but she had a good eye for fashion. We lived in a shithole, hungry all the time, so she got creative.”
A smile surfaces, delicate and fleeting, breaking through like a shard of light. It trembles on my lips, fragile against the surrounding shadow, as a memory flickers behind my eyes—oddly bright, startling in its clarity. “I remember her taking old, stinky curtains, cutting and sewing them into blouses, dresses—” I trail off, nodding slightly, as if the motion stitches the memory back together. “She could make anything.”
My gaze returns to Dante, and my smile widens. “I think I got this from her—my creativity.”
“You’re better than her,” he says.
It’s one of those lines that sounds obvious in my mind, but hearing it spoken aloud gives it more weight. Something long buried deep inside me flares to life, sparking in the quiet spaces between words.
“I know,” I whisper, blinking rapidly as the edges of the space blur. A tremor snakes through my body, and a lump rises in my throat, heavy and unrelenting.
I exhale sharply, nostrils flaring, when a shadow cuts across my face. Alert, my lips twitch as I snap my head up, annoyance flaring for a heartbeat, before I see her.
A woman stands by our table, late forties, maybe early fifties, her skin kissed by the sun and hardened by the city. Deep lines curve around her mouth, her smile soft but knowing, her eyes darting between me and Dante with a subtle, practiced curiosity.
My gaze drifts lower, to her neck: charms and pendants hang in a delicate jumble—an eye-shaped amulet, a tarnished silver coin, a tiny vial of something dark.
A street psychic. I hadn’t paid much attention before, though I’ve seen women like her scattered around Barcelona—usually perched in the middle of the street beneath worn umbrellas, calling out fortunes to passersby.
“¿Podemos ayudarle?Can we help you?” Dante asks, his voice tinged with confusion.
“She’s a street psychic,” I explain, seizing the opportunity as it presents itself. A childlike thrill surges through me, rushing under my skin like a jolt of pure adrenaline. My lips curve into a smile as I turn toward her, every sense fully attuned, every fiber of my attention absorbed by the moment.
She wears a long, layered skirt that sweeps the ground with every step, edges frayed from time and wear. A knittedshawl drapes over her shoulders, faintly scented with incense and cardamom, wrapping her in an invisible aura of mystery. Her cream-colored blouse hangs loose, sleeves gathered at the wrists, where thin bangles tinkle softly with every subtle gesture she makes.
“I can speak English if you like,” she says, her accent cutting through softly. “I would love to do a palm reading for a young, beautifulparejalike you.”
Dante and I exchange glances. He looks awkward, probably because she called us a couple, or maybe because he simply doesn’t trust anyone. Both worries seem valid.
“Yes, please,” I blurt out, extending my hand.
“Wait, isn’t this?—”
“Don’t worry,” she interrupts, taking my hand gently, her gaze locking on Dante. “I have years of experience. This will be the most genuine, honest reading anyone has ever done for you.”
A flicker of annoyance crosses Dante’s features, but when he sees my wide grin, he decides to simmer in silence.
