Usually, he’d suggest a cup of coffee or a round of drinks. Maybe even a full-on dinner if he was in the mood. But agreeing to let an amateur psychic pick his brain?
This was uncharted territory.
He settled into his seat and looked over at his blind date. Cute, feather earrings and age appropriate. Not a total disaster.
Then came the reading…
“I’m sensing a connection to the arts,” she mused. “Painting. Oils specifically.”
He glanced at his hands. Tiny streaks of Venetian red from the community center class still clung to his cuticles.
At least she was observant…
The Weekday One Hundred 