So it Begins

Margo Lane knew she was destined for great things.  She attributed her current situation to a series of unfortunate choices which had begun with the dating of two consecutive Ricks; both of whom had intrigued her with eclectic hobbies, such as the collection of vintage toys or beetle fighting.  Both Ricks, subsequently turning out to just be weird and without redeeming qualities, started a domino effect of poor decisions which seemed to occur as a matter of course and outside her control.  And while the new year found her toasting herself with almost expired eggnog, she had confidently declared, “Margo Lane, this is your year.”

She could drop a few pounds, maybe update her makeup stash a bit, but basically a catch.  A solid seven if she tried.  Margo considered herself the kind of woman you couldn't easily criticize but also wouldn’t find threatening.  She knew how to unapologetically eat  a cinnamon roll and had perfected the messy bun even before tutorials emerged. These being goals many women strived lifetimes to achieve, Margo quietly applauded her own potential. 

Margo did not take a particular interest  in fashion, but based her wardrobe entirely on her need for comfort. Discomfort was the one thing that could dampen her sunny disposition and she blamed a particular too-tight pair of jeans for more than one failed relationship.  The times were catching up to Margo, and she viewed the sudden popularity of oversized sweaters as a sure sign that she was reaching the prime of her existence.  There were worse things than turning 34 unmarried, with a studio apartment and only half an economics degree.  She had, in fact, read recently of a woman her own age, married and with a whole medical degree behind her with a permanent case of amnesia after being concussed in a freak accident involving a  fire hydrant..  Comparatively, her outlook was blindingly bright.

Margo’s sister-in law, Angel was responsible for her current status at Angel And Spirits Psychic readings.  She had asked Margo to look after the place when she left for her ten day honeymoon and three months later she had not returned.  The first time she postponed her return had spiraled Margo into a state of panic. She was meant to answer the phone,  keep the plants watered and the cat fed.  Now the appointments were made and Angel had suggested she “deal with them” herself.  “I am many things,“ Margo had asserted, “one of which is not a psychic.”  And to her surprise, Angel had suggested she “Google it.” and whined helplessly “Please Margo.” thus inciting Margo’s deep desire to be entirely relied upon. 

Having no reasonable exit from this newfound calling, she did as any self respecting woman might, and declared it providential.  As an added bonus, her employment was a timely response to her deadbeat dad, (a thrice married tire salesman) telling her to get her shit together.  The nerve.  She had, within the week, a Google history containing phrases like How to be a fake psychic, palm reading for beginners and Tarot cheat sheet.  She learned the basics of interpreting body language and facial expressions, to make general statements, and to “elicit cooperation” from her clients.  She was nothing if not committed,and with all these tools under her belt, she found people generally wanting little more than someone willing to listen.  They were often lonely, and she held their hands and told them what they wanted to hear.  Any initial shame she might have felt in her trickery quickly dissolved beneath the rain of thankful tears.  

This morning, the door had chimed early, and with it a couple, almost certainly here for some affirmation of their compatibility.  No doubt her idea. The woman was young and beautiful in a way that must have required a significant commitment to her morning routine.  Each hair in place and not a wrinkle in her perfectly fitted white blouse, Margo mused that she might have walked straight out of the display window at Saks Fifth Avenue.  The man before her, in contrast, disheveled, wore a faded grey hoodie and was in need of a comb.  His appeal, though, was not lost on Margo.  This guy was handsome as hell, a solid ten; the kind of rugged guy that put ripped jeans back in style.  He was nervous, his leg bouncing gently under the table and his chair pushed back just far enough to imply a lack of commitment to the process.  

Margo folded her hands and sat forward in her chair , letting a moment pass and thoughtfully observing the couple before introducing herself.  These subtleties projected complete confidence and, she hoped,  added her air of mystery.  She fanned her hands open and said wistfully “Welcome.” with a steadiness that, despite her lack of qualifications, would at least convince them that she believed herself to be a bonafide psychic.  

“I’m Ray”.  His voice was as beautiful as he was. Deep and rich.  Margo guiltily swooned and the woman piped in quickly  “Addison.  I, well,  this was my idea.”  She offered as an explanation.  Ray shrugged and added, “I am not really sure why I'm here. I don’t even believe in this stuff.” he grimaced apologetically.  Addison sighed and folded her arms across her chest, rolling her eyes. 

Ray looked wearily toward the door, and Margo, not wanting to lose sight of this man or his forty-five dollars, reached out and gently pulled his hand across the table.  She turned it over and spread his palm beneath her thumbs, tracing his life line.  She wrinkled her forehead with a “Hmm.”  There was nothing like a cryptic pause to buy a girl some time.  She was about to shotgun this guy with general statements until something stuck when Addison, deeply interested, leaned in and rested her hand on his knee.  No ring.  Margo muttered “I see.” thoughtfully.  It was almost too easy.

“There is a fork here, in your love line.  A relationship with a choice to be made, a turning point.” She ventured confidently.  Ray rested his elbows on the table and looked at her doubtfully.  

Addison shook her head, looking from Ray to Margo with a sigh.  “He’s not open to it, such a stubborn ass sometimes.”

“Skepticism is natural and not necessarily evidence of an ass.”  Margo met Ray’s offended stare with her sweetest smile and he conceded, muttering, “I do have a decision to make.” He looked  at Addison’s knees but did not meet her eyes.  “A decision about moving forward.  Everyone is pressuring me and I know I should, but I don't want to.”

Addison rose from her chair, smoothing her skirt as she stood, and turned away from him. Margo watched Addison with sympathy as she remained poised, considering her next move.  She knew a woman this put together contained a dangerous amount of potential energy stored within her, but she simply turned and announced, “There is only one thing to do.”  Addison bent before Ray and met his eyes.  “Raymond Alexander Lawrence, I am going shopping.  I am going shopping and then I am moving on.  Stop feeding the dog Vienna Sausage; you are going to kill him, shave your damn face, and stop calling on me.  It's over.”  With this she stood and walked out.  

Margo shifted nervously in the wake of this departure, hoping she might at least be paid for having endured the awkwardness of witnessing the scene.  Ray dropped his head into his hands.  “What should I do?”  he asked desperately and to no one in particular.   And though he was running his fingers through his hair like a supermodel, brown eyes glistening, Margo found his apparent idiocy a distinct, if temporary, turn-off.

“Addison couldn’t have made it more obvious buddy.” Margo quipped impatiently.

Ray flinched and responded slowly,  “Addison is here?”  Tears welled in his eyes.

“She left, Ray.”  Margo considered if this were true, having not heard the bell chime when she let herself out.  “She said it, she wants to go shopping and move on.  Forever.  Shave your face and stop feeding the dog Vienna Sausages.  If you ask me she made it pretty easy on you.”  Margo shrugged. 

Ray stood now and gathered Margo into a hug, smelling exactly as she suspected he would.  “You saved me.” he choked out, encompassing in both gesture and word exactly the effect Margo hoped to have on her patrons. 

He turned before he reached the door, “She wants me to live. This is the first time I have felt hopeful since Addison died.” to which Margo could only reply in near disbelief, "I think I am a psychic."

Margo caught her reflection in the window as she watched him go.  “Well. I’ll be damned.” she said, and didn't care a bit that he had forgotten to pay her.  He will be back, she grinned.  This was her year.