Of all the details in Madame Elara’s dim, sandalwood-scented parlor—the worn velvet chairs, the deck of cards, her own serious, Bohemian-clad presence—it was the red curtain in the corner that held my eye. A deep, plush velvet, it seemed to swallow the dim light. As I sat down, paralyzed with a twenty-something’s indecision over which man to build a future with, I saw it: a slight, deliberate shift in its folds, as if something had just settled behind it.

Madame Elara, a middle-aged immigrant with a cascade of blonde-brown curls, turned to glance at the curtain, then looked directly through me, dismissing my discomfort with the weariness of a librarian who knew the limits of her domain. She was a professional. Unseen presences, beaded bracelets, large crystal rings, and dangling necklaces were all part of her curated mystique. Her chiffon blouse, summery against the chilled January window, was a reminder that the outside world—where downtowners walked and cars sped by—was still there, waiting for my escape.

She asked few, pointed questions, cutting through my chatter about shared values and life goals. As she began laying out the cards with quiet precision, my attention kept splitting between her solemn face and that still curtain. The air felt watched.

Her reading was not theatrical. It was a forensic, dispiriting analysis. She spoke of obscured paths and mirrored truths, her voice a low monotone. Then, she paused, tapping a card with a red nail. She looked deeply at me and stated a plain, ugly fact: one of the men I was considering was profoundly, actively unfaithful.

The information didn’t sink in as heartbreak. It landed as farce. Who was I to be heartbroken between two suitors, when one of them was also considering others? The gravity of her delivery, the eerie setting, the silent witness behind the curtain—all collided with the absurd punchline of my own romantic dilemma. A sharp, uncontrollable laugh hijacked my throat, so forceful it blurred my vision with tears. I covered my face with both hands. I must have looked utterly devastated. Madame Elara continued her reading.

Even as the laughter bubbled, my gaze snapped back to the curtain. A fresh ripple disturbed its surface, slow and inquisitive. A primal certainty froze the sound in my chest. To give full voice to my hysteria would be to invite whatever lingered there into the light. This was not a place for mockery, even if the truth it offered was laughable. I choked the laughter into a quiet, strangled gasp, a poor imitation of grief.

I paid her $30 in cash, my hands unsteady, and fled into the bracing winter evening dramatically. I was not worried about my life choices, only about offending Madame Elara and her hidden companions.

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