Ramón walked across the plaza. The birds no longer sang of hope. Now their noise mocked him, told him what he was. What he would always be.
Up ahead the old man was still sitting at his little table in the shade, the same old man who’d offered to tell Ramón his fortune earlier, when Ramón’s future seemed so bright.
He had told the old man that there was no time, but really he was early for the interview. There was plenty of time.
Ramón wondered now if telling the old man this lie had somehow cursed him. He wondered if knowing one’s fortune could alter it. He wondered if it was not too late.
The old man sat at his table, the greasy deck of cards before him. He looked up at Ramón with ancient black eyes, beckoned for him to sit.
Ramón felt in his pocket for the coins.