The Fortune Teller

– I see marriage. Two years. Three tops.

 – You’re lying.

 – No. I’m not.

Entering the pub, I see him. A girlish giggle results in a snort.

– Next Friday. You will meet.

– Bullshit.

– No. Not bullshit. Fact.

There is no pounding heart.

No eyes locking.

No tongue licking lips.

No slow blinking.

For goodness sake, it’s not a movie! It’s not… a rom-com!

– He’s tall. Brown hair, freckled skin.

– Bullshit.

Instead, sweat drips.

Lipstick marked teeth.

Nervous shouts of laughter. Too loud Meredith! Calm down!

Swallow saliva, bite nails, chew, spit. Bad habit.

– Tall guys don’t go for me.

– This one does.

– I want my money back.

But!

Hands touch. Skin tingles. Heart soars.

Later…

Tongues meet, stubble scratches. He tastes of… Winnie Blues cigarettes.

Bodies grind.

Yes, she was worth it – the fortune teller, in the end.

Side-note though, he has no freckles.