Page 4 of Man of His Dreams

“I don’t?—”

“You moved in yesterday.” She pointed up at his gallery across the street. “When you gonna leave?”

He scowled at her. “Look, I’ve signed a valid rental agreement. I have every right to?—”

“Ain’t tryin’ to scare you off, boy. Just wanna know some things about my new neighbor.”

Did that mean she lived there too? If so, she had an easy commute to work. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m just kinda tired and grouchy. Moving’s a pain and?—”

“Especially if you ain’t got your suitcase.” Smirking, she took a long drag. “Don’t look so goggle-eyed, boy. I’m a seer, remember.”

More like a hearer, he decided after a pause. He’d had his windows open while talking to the airline today, and the sound must have carried down to her. “In answer to your question: three months.” He’d been able to budget that much. After that, he’d have to find a day job or move somewhere with cheaper rent. But those were things to worry about later.

Miss Amelie stroked her chin. “Three months, huh?”

“Is that a problem?”

“A challenge more like.” She cackled, and he didn’t understand why. Then she waved her hand, indicating the items on her table: a deck of tarot cards, a pair of golden dice, and an old-fashioned illustration of a human palm. “You see all this? It’s bullshit.”

“Um… okay.”

“I just use ’em ’cause folks expect ’em. Truth is, I don’t need no cards or nothing to divinate. I just see things here.” She tapped the center of her forehead. “My Clear Eye is wide open. Always has been.”

He knew he should simply humor her, but he couldn’t help shaking his head. “If you can foresee things, how come you’re not rich and famous?”

Instead of being offended, she laughed loudly. “You think I want to be them things? I’m happy right here, boy. And anyway, my Eye don’t let me see lottery numbers or shit like that. I can’t tell nobody what stocks to buy or which side to bet on. I just see shit. It’s a knowin’. I can’t control it. Dunno if I would even if I could. Seems shifty to me, tryin’ to stay three jumps ahead of anyone else.”

They watched a mule-drawn carriage slowly roll by, the mule’s hooves clomping on the pavement and the tourists goggling at Flip and Miss Amelie. The carriage driver, who had a tiny dog next to him, waved, and Miss Amelie waved back.

“Your Clear Eye’s wide open too, you know,” she said to Flip after the carriage turned the corner.

He instinctively touched his forehead, but of course all he felt was skin. “I doubt that.”

“’Course it is. How else would you be able to write your stories? You see those people you write about even if they don’t exactly exist.”

“That’s not how—” Flip stopped himself because, in truth, he had no explanation for where his stories came from. They just sort of appeared in his brain like gifts from a muse, and they felt as real as anything else around him. Sometimes more real; he’d been accused more than once of living in his head.

Well, if he did have some kind of magic eye, it was squeezed shut now. He hadn’t been able to envision his story at all.

And how did she know he was an author? More eavesdropping? Had she spoken with his landlord, whom Flip had yet to meet in person?

Miss Amelie stubbed out her cigarette on an amber glass ashtray. “You know, that building you’re livin’ in, it’s over two hundred years old. Imagine all the folks who’ve been inside those walls, all the things that have happened. Imagine what a boy with his Eye open could see in there.” She gave an enigmatic smile.

For no valid reason, Flip shivered. “If you’re trying to get me scared of ghosts, it’s not going to happen.”

“Don’t need to be scared of none of the ghosts ’round here. Ain’t no bad ones in my neighborhood.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She moved her hand in the direction of his apartment. “Get on home now, Phillip. It’s fixin’ to rain.”

The sky did look ominous; he hadn’t noticed that before. He stood. “It was good to meet you, Miss Amelie. I guess I’ll be seeing you around.”

“You’ll be seeing lots of things.” And she cackled.

The first raindrops fell moments after he entered his apartment, as he was taking off his shoes. By the time he went to the window and looked out, water was sheeting down impressively. The sidewalk and gallery across the street were empty, with no sign of Miss Amelie, although he had no idea how she’d been able to pack up so quickly.

He meandered to the desk and sat down. There was that taunting cursor, blinking away at him. Since it couldn’t hurt, he took a few deep breaths and pictured a closed eyelid in the center of his forehead, then imagined it slowly opening to reveal an eye. Hazel like his real ones, but bigger and with infinitely better vision. He?—

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