Miss Kitty Takes Your Dollar
but before she does, she comes alive at your passing, lids fluttering open to reveal black fish eyes. She promises to tell me my future, to be secretive about my past, to not embarrass me in front of the boy I might love. But her smile has teeth, and I’ve been here before and I know a little bit about stuffing something into a hole and seeing what comes out. I borrow a dollar from the busboy–he’s been eyeing my legs and my high heeled shoes, so I promise tomorrow to tell him how to wear stockings–and Miss Kitty and I get down to business. She’s got a voice like my grandmother and the door is ajar girl on my car. It’s a little sexy and a little scary and it sounds like year-old candy rattling in a glass bowl. Every time she speaks, she licks her lips and swims her eyelids over her fishes. It’s hard to understand her around the fangs, but I’m pretty sure she says, in that end, that everything
is going to be finned.
~ Palm Reading
Image of Miss Kitty (which costs a dollar!) at Cannery Row in Monterey.
Words written in the back room of a coffee shop.
Time Taken half of a mocha.
Brain on work. I haz a lot of it.