The espresso machine shrieked like a creature in pain, drowning out Samantha’s hushed confession about her marriage. I leaned forward, straining to hear, conscious of the table’s sticky surface beneath my forearms. Three weeks since I’d lost my shop, and I still hadn’t adjusted to reading cards in public spaces—the stares, the noise, the complete absence of the controlled environment I’d cultivated for years.
“Sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked, offering an apologetic smile. “The noise in here is—”
“I said he’s talking about children again.” Samantha’s fingers nervously twisted the wedding band on her left hand. “After I explicitly told him I wasn’t ready.”
I nodded, trying to project the serene understanding that had come so easily in my shop, where the lighting was dim and flattering, where scented candles masked the smells of anxiety and uncertainty, where silence was a presence rather than an absence. Here, under the coffee shop’s merciless LED lighting, Samantha looked older, more worn. Her makeup couldn’t quite hide the shadows beneath her eyes.
Or perhaps it wasn’t the lighting. Perhaps it was me, seeing more clearly now that my own foundations were crumbling.
“Let’s see what the cards say,” I murmured, reaching for my deck.
The table wobbled as I laid out the cloth—a poor substitute for my carved wooden table back at the shop. This laminate surface was uneven, marked with coffee rings and scratches from countless laptops. I could feel eyes on us from neighboring tables—curious glances, whispered comments. In one corner, a man with thick-framed glasses stared openly over his laptop screen, his expression a mixture of amusement and disdain.
I’d chosen this café because it was six blocks from my old shop—far enough that I wouldn’t have to see the pizza place, close enough that regular clients could still find me. It was a compromise that pleased no one, least of all me.
Samantha shifted in her metal chair, which scraped against the floor with a sound that set my teeth on edge. “Should we be doing this here?” she whispered, eyeing the barista who was watching us with undisguised interest. “It feels… I don’t know. Exposed.”
“It’s fine,” I lied, shuffling my cards with hands that felt stiff and unfamiliar. Each card caught against my fingers, protesting this indignity. These weren’t meant to be handled beneath overhead lights, surrounded by the chatter of strangers discussing stock options and Tinder dates. “Focus on your question about your husband, about your future together.”
Samantha nodded, closing her eyes briefly. She’d been coming to me for three years, ever since she found my shop during a rainstorm and decided her soaked condition was a sign to step inside. She’d become more than a client—almost a friend, though the professional boundary remained. She knew things about me. I knew more about her.
I dealt the cards in our familiar pattern, the one we’d established over dozens of sessions in my quiet back room with its velvet curtains and shelves of crystals. But here, the movements felt performative, theatrical. A spectacle for those with nothing better to watch.
The first card revealed the Six of Cups—nostalgia, childhood memories. Fitting, given her husband’s desires. The second showed the Eight of Swords—restriction, feeling trapped. The third…
“Death, reversed,” I said, keeping my voice low as I tapped the ominous-looking card. “It means—”
“Could you speak up?” Samantha leaned forward, straining to hear. “I can’t hear you over the noise.”
I cleared my throat, uncomfortable with raising my voice to discuss something so personal. The espresso machine hissed again, releasing a cloud of steam that seemed to mock my attempts at creating an atmosphere of intimacy.
“Death reversed,” I repeated, slightly louder. “It doesn’t literally mean death. It represents resistance to change, stagnation. Combined with these other cards, I’m seeing a pattern of—”
A young barista with blue hair and multiple ear piercings approached our table, spray bottle and cloth in hand. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “Just need to wipe down this area.”
Before I could protest, she bumped against our table while reaching for a nearby surface. The table—already unsteady—tilted sharply. The cards slid across the slick laminate like leaves scattered by autumn wind, some falling to the floor, others landing in Samantha’s lap.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” The barista’s eyes widened, her practiced customer-service smile faltering. “I didn’t realize they would slide like that.”
I bit back the words that rose to my lips—sharp, angry words about respect and space and common decency. Instead, I forced a tight smile. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine. The reading was ruined. The flow broken. The energy scattered along with the cards.
Samantha bent down, gathering cards from the floor. Her fingers were gentle with them, respectful, and something in my chest tightened at this small kindness. I collected the ones that had fallen into her lap, our hands briefly touching in the exchange.
The barista hovered uncomfortably. “Can I get you guys anything else? A free pastry maybe? For the trouble?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” I said, my tone making it clear that her departure would be the greatest service she could offer.
She nodded and retreated, taking her spray bottle and her disruptive presence with her. But the damage was done. The moment was broken, the connection severed.
Samantha helped me gather the remaining cards, stacking them neatly. Her expression was apologetic, but there was something else there too—a decision forming. I’d seen it before in other clients’ faces, that moment when they decided the effort wasn’t worth the reward.
“I’m sorry, Rahel,” she said softly, sliding a twenty across the table toward me. The bill lay there between us like a barrier, a formalization of what had once been more fluid, more meaningful. “I miss your shop. The privacy, the incense, the silence. Meeting like this…” She gestured vaguely at our surroundings, the noisy café with its harsh lighting and curious onlookers. “It feels wrong.”
I didn’t touch the twenty. “We could try somewhere else. Maybe the park when weather permits, or—”
“It’s not just the location.” Samantha’s gaze dropped to the table, avoiding my eyes. “It’s… everything has an energy, right? Isn’t that what you taught me? And this energy is all wrong. Fractured. Unsettled.” She touched my hand, her fingers warm against my cold ones. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
The words landed like stones in still water, sending ripples through my already unstable world. Another loss. Another ending. Another piece of the life I’d built crumbling away.
“I understand,” I said, because what else could I say? I couldn’t argue. She was right. This was wrong—all wrong. The cards deserved better. My clients deserved better. I deserved better than this half-life, this pale imitation of what I’d created.
Samantha stood, gathering her purse. “You helped me through so much, Rahel. My mother’s illness. The job change. All those decisions…” She paused, searching for words. “I hope you find your way back to that. To creating that space again, somewhere.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. Around us, the café continued its noisy existence—the hiss of steam, the grind of coffee beans, the tap of laptops, the murmur of conversations. Life continuing while mine seemed suspended.
“Take care of yourself,” she said, and then she was gone, pushing through the door into the bright afternoon, leaving me alone at a sticky table with scattered cards and a twenty-dollar bill I hadn’t earned.
I stared at the money. My last reading with a woman who’d trusted me with her secrets for three years, reduced to a transaction neither of us was satisfied with. I pushed the bill into my pocket alongside the others—tips that barely covered the cost of the drinks I felt obligated to purchase for occupying table space.
The Death card stared up at me from the table, still reversed. Resistance to change. Stagnation. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
With methodical care, I gathered my cards, wiping each one on my sleeve before returning it to the deck. They deserved better than this place with its spilled coffee and indifferent audience. They deserved reverence. Purpose.
As I packed away my cloth and cards, I felt a familiar chill—the slightest drop in temperature that often preceded Mister B.’s appearances. But he didn’t materialize. Just a reminder, then, that I wasn’t entirely alone.
Small comfort in a coffee shop where I was nothing but a curiosity, a woman with funny cards and dwindling clientele. I stood, chair legs scraping against tile, and made my way toward the door Samantha had disappeared through minutes before.
Outside, the heat wrapped around me like a heavy blanket. I paused on the sidewalk, momentarily disoriented. Where to go now? Home to my apartment with its dripping faucet and looming rent increase? To another café to wait for a client who might never appear? To the park to sit on a bench and pretend I wasn’t watching my life unravel strand by strand?
The tarot deck pressed against my thigh through the fabric of my pocket. Waiting. Patient. Eternal in a way nothing else in my life seemed to be. They had answers, if only I could find the right questions. The right place to ask them. The right way to listen.
For now, though, there was only the crowded sidewalk, and another piece of my carefully constructed life scattered to the wind like the cards across that wobbling café table.
68Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgUOUrOtnAD
Hello everyone and thank you for reading!
We're slowly getting into volume 2 here on Penana, but at the time of this writing, 4 volumes are finished and I'm currently working on the 5th. If you want to continue reading immediately, you can do so on my homepage under www.empowering-spirit.com/the-tarot-dimes :)
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