Fortune teller

A joy of city living is getting a glimpse of what other people own. On nighttime walks with my dog, I love to peek through windows, momentary glances at furniture, artwork, and paint choices. On the weekends, neighbors leave unwanted items on the curb for anyone to rescue. On certain blocks of Beachwood, makeshift flea markets have begun to appear: racks of clothing, boxes of books, weathered lampshades. On a recent walk, I passed a collection of books that overstayed their welcome. Atop the pile sat a golden-trimmed copy of Fortune Telling. I flipped to my birthday, and read the following prediction:

“You are uncommunicative.”

I stopped there; I didn’t need to read anymore. Was it meant to be a fortune, or indicative of my present nature? Was the fortune in attempting to perform the opposite of that—am I better off communicating? I decided not to think too much about it; after all, it was just a random book, neither purchased by nor left for me.