The Mystic
Raymond Antrobus
The lightbulb in The Mystic’s living room is reluctant. The pink laminated sofa looks like a fat dick in a greasy condom. The Mystic sits in the deck chair in the middle of the room, watching the wide-screen TV. A young Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own. Rain pellets the windows. The Mystic’s face is a dark leaf in a drained swimming pool. I have come to her, anxious at 11pm on the day I fill out my Green Card application. I feel like another spoon in America’s sink. The Mystic takes my hand, reads the lines on my palm, occasionally looks up at the TV. Tom Hanks is smiling. The Mystic says I will die at 83. A young Tom Hanks wears a baseball cap. The Mystic wears grey socks and sandals. The Mystic says someone close to me is bitter about our distance. Someone older. Someone foreign. Someone not American. The Mystic turns her head back to the TV. Tom Hanks looks nervous. The Mystic looks hypnotised. Something is coming your way. A good thing. A good good thing says The Mystic to me or Tom Hanks, leaning back in her chair.
