It is roughly ten to nine when he knocks at her door (could be ten to ten, really --- hard to tell with his broken cell phone screen --- but the days have been getting longer, the sun setting later and, with something of a pinkish hue to the skies’ dark blue color still, he assumes the former). Most service providers aren’t open this late, he’s well aware --- but, well... call him superstitious, he wouldn’t mind - he’s been walking around with a dreadful feeling all day, the sense that something bad might happen, and though that, more often than not, is Job Edwards’ cue to haul ass the fuck out of town; prior engagements require he sticks around a few days more, and suppose this is the only way he can think of to soothe his raging mind.
What? Don’t look at him like that. If whatever bullshit power he has coursing through his veins is real (oh and, trust him - it’s real as all fuck, much to his deep and crippling regret), then at least some of these fortune tellers’, psychics’, whatever they like being called these days, ought to be real. Right? They have to be.
Right?
His expression reads somewhere between distressed and apologetic when the door is finally answered. “Uh --- pardon me, ma’am, I know it’s late --- but if there’s even the slightest chance you’re still open for readings tonight...”
@griefstain.
