Indian Winter
Five boys and I
in a room
a tungsten room
crammed with Indian aromas
a single pair of briefs wait draped over an
aluminum towel rack
to dry
we sit on the floor circling squares of Styrofoam piled high with dining hall rice
Paddles ladle
and white scatters onto reflective dishes and take-out container tops
fingers stuff sauces into faces that tell jokes between bites
“I am promised” he says
“to whom?” I ask
“No! He is palmist.” I am corrected
“he will read your future – believe him, he will show you your past”
The pre-teen voice of the mustache man keeps score as the pundit goes 5 for 5
and asks to describe
my love-line
aloud
the lights dim as electricity is borrowed for the for the fortune teller’s concentration
10 pupils grow
our breath caught between clouds of Rasam and Masala powders
“Do you mind he says out loud?”
My cheeks constrict into a smile
“You have had some bad luck”.
©2008 Hillary Swanson. All rights reserved.