I went to a palm reader and the odd thing about the reading was that everything she told me was totally wrong.
She said I loved airplanes, that I had been born in Seattle, that my mother’s name was Hilary.
But she seemed so sure of the information that I began to feel like I’d been walking around with these false documents permanently tattooed to my hands.
It was very noisy in the parlor and members of her family kept running in and out.
They were speaking a high, clicking kind of language that sounded a lot like Arabic.
Books and magazines in Arabic were strewn all over the floor.
It suddenly occurred to me that maybe there was a translation problem--that maybe she was reading my hand from right to left instead of left to right.
Thinking of mirrors, I gave her my other hand.
Then she put her other hand out and we sat there for several minutes in what I assumed was some kind of participatory ritual.
Finally I realized that her hand was out because she was waiting for money.
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