"C'mon, mister! Move!" An impatient female voice slowly penetrates through the fog of Sam's sleep. He awakens with a start. It is dark. He is cold. He forgot to grab his jacket when he left their apartment. That's how he still thinks of it: Our apartment. Only now there is no we, no us, no ours; Lisa is gone.

"Mister, for cryin' out loud! Yer stretched out like yer in yer goddamn living room! C'mon now, my granny has a hard time walkin'. I hafta walk next tuh her, so she can hold on tuh me."

"Oh! Sorry!" Sam mumbles, as the whining voice jars him back to the present. He rises and moves to the sidewalk. He regards the two women who have been waiting impatiently for him to clear the steps.

One is grey-haired, elderly, easily eighty years old or more, dressed in a faded blue floral cotton housedress, white cotton ankle socks and heavy orthopoedic shoes. She is barely five feet tall, but looks even shorter because of her hunched over posture. She leans heavily on a cane with one hand, and with the other holds onto the arm of a much younger woman. She regards Sam curiously out of her one good eye, while the other squints uselessly.

The younger woman stands about six inches taller than her companion, and is clad in tight black jeans and a faded black tank top. Traces of ancient, bruise-colored polish cling to the toes peeking out of her scuffed black platform sandles. She is painfully thin and lacking in curves. Her hair is platinum blonde, lacklustre and dry from too much chemical processing. From a distance she looks relatively young, about twenty-four maybe, but upon closer scrutiny lines become apparent across her forehead, under her eyes and from the outer edges of her nostrils to either side of her thin-lipped mouth. She talks in a lazy whine, dangling a cigarette from the corner of her thin lips. She rolls her bloodshot, clumpily mascaraed blue eyes at Sam, and mutters in her whiny, raspy smoker's voice, "Well, it's about time!"

"Sorry," murmurs Sam apologetically. "Guess I dozed off."

"No shit!" retorts the blonde, with a calculated flip of her bleached, dead layers. She takes the cigarette from her mouth, tilts her head back and regards him out of half-closed eyes while raising the cigarette slowly to her thin lips again and taking a deep drag. "Listen, ya look like a strong guy. How 'bout helpin' me get my granny up to our apartment? S'least ya could do."

"Uh, sure," replies Sam.

The blonde motions Sam to the older woman's cane side. The old woman glances at him out of her one good eye, then wordlessly hands him her cane and takes his proffered arm. The three of them begin mounting the steps, Sam and the blonde practically lifting the tiny old lady between them from step to step. They reach the entry hall, and the blonde gives Sam a side-glance as she casually mentions, "Only three more flights."

Sam's inward groan almost becomes audible, but he catches it in time. He looks at the blonde and raises one eyebrow slightly, then nods. She laughs, and the three continue slowly up the three flights, finally arriving at a paint-chipped brown door.

Sam is about to leave, when the old woman grabs his arm again and mutters to her granddaughter. The blonde looks surprised, then tells Sam, "Granny'd like ya tuh come in. She wants tuh tell yer fortune."

"That's okay," Sam says as politely as he can, trying to gently pry the old fingers from his arm. "I've had a really bad day. I think I'm just gonna call it a night." The gnarled old fingers will not budge.

"Mister, ya don't say no tuh Granny. She don't offer tuh do that for jus' anybody. She's really got the gift. People pay her lotsa money tuh tell their fortunes."

Sam laughs. "So with all that money comin' in, why do you live here?"

"Granny's always lived here, and won't THINK o' movin'. I came tuh live with her 'bout four months ago, when my ole man beat me up. My mom's dead. Never knew my dad. Granny's my only family, so here I am. C'mon, mister, make the ole lady happy. She wants tuh do this fer ya."

Sam turns to the old lady and pats the hand on his arm, smiles good-naturedly and tells her, "Thank you very much."

The old face wrinkles up into a smile. "You a NICE boy," she tells him in heavily accented English. "You come in. Katya make coffee, and I tell fortune. Your luck is going to change. I feel it."

	Does the old fortune-teller see wealth in Sam's future? Go to Section C211.
	Does the old fortune-teller see a reunion with Lisa in Sam's future? Go to Section C212.
	Does Sam become romantically involved with Katya? Go to Section C213.

Note: Any readers interested in contributing to this story should send their submissions to the address below.

briankessler@nowhereatall.net