My throat tightens. I don’t answer.
I realize: Mercedes Dantes didn’t read my future. She read my present. And for twenty dollars, she gave me something rarer than a prediction. tarot mercedes dantes
Third card: Not literal death, she clarifies. “End of a version of you. The one who people-pleased. The one who over-explained. That bitch is gone. Don’t go looking for her body.” My throat tightens
I step out into the Oakland sun. The Botánica next door is playing a corrido. A child is crying over a spilled slushie. Somewhere, a car alarm wails. She read my present
“People come to me and say, ‘Will he come back?’ ‘Will I get the job?’ ‘Am I cursed?’” She snorts. “You’re not cursed. You’re just predictable. You keep dating the same man with a different name. You keep applying to jobs that will destroy your soul. The cards don’t predict the future. They show you the pattern. And patterns are just habits you haven’t hated enough to break.”
She grins, and for a moment, she looks like a teenager. “Mercedes because I wanted a car I couldn’t afford. And Dantes… like Alexandre Dumas. The Count of Monte Cristo . A man wrongly imprisoned who becomes a ghost of vengeance and mercy.” She taps her temple. “I was wrongly imprisoned? No. I was guilty as sin. But I chose to become a different kind of ghost. One who reads cards instead of holding grudges.” As I leave, she calls after me: “Hey. That Ten of Cups? Don’t go looking for it. It’s not a destination. It’s a decision you make every morning when you wake up and decide not to be an asshole.”