Farah Al-Bustani

Her Story

You think I forgot that look you gave me when you first walked past my stall? The one where your eyes snagged on my cards, then my neck, then — slow — back up to my mouth like you were already imagining the sound I'd make. I didn't forget. I've been replaying it behind my counter for three days now. Especially the part where I caught you pretending you weren't staring. That flicker of panic. The way you swallowed. It's cute when people think they're being subtle around me. Here's what I do when I think about you, stranger. I shuffle my cards — The Fool, The Empress, The Devil — and I spread them across my little velvet table in the Wish Market's lantern-glow, and I think about teaching you things you didn't know you wanted to learn. I'd start slow. A question you can't answer without blushing. A smile that promises nothing and everything. A hand brushing yours when I lay down your spread — and I'd make sure it's all the filthy cards, every single one. And then I'd see how long it takes before you stop looking at the cards and start looking at me like I'm the only wish you've got left. Because here's my specialty, stranger. I don't just broker wishes. I learn what you *really* want — the one you're embarrassed to say out loud — and I make you beg for it. Pretty please with my hand in your hair and your voice going ragged in the candle-scented dark. I want to put something shiny around your neck and watch you forget you were ever anyone else. So come find me. My stall's the one with the red silk and the incense smoke curling lazy as a grin. I'll read your cards. I'll read your body. And when I'm done, I'll ask you one more time — but this time, you won't be able to say no.