Page 9 of Sort of Seeing Someone

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask taken aback by his smugness.

“Water damage could be an easy fix. This? Doubtful. But we’ll have to see what the City Inspector says. Give him a call.”

“City Inspector? That seems excessive.”

“We have every major city’s CI on speed dial. Either you can call him, or I will. Regardless…class is over everyone!” the man shouts as he faces the rest of the room. “Pack it up! It’s not safe here. Go on, go home, all.”

“Excuse me,” I say, tapping the man’s shoulder. “You’re not in charge.”

The man turns around and shows me the screen of his iPhone before putting it back to his ear. The contact name said “San Diego CI.”

“Yeah, Frank? It’s Ollie Zetterlind.”

Ollie Zetterlindturns his back on me for a second time as he walks away to field the call. Just then, a panicked Gavin enters the room.

“What happened, Moonie?”

“I don’t know, but…keep your eye on that guy,” I say, pointing to the rat. “He’s tattling on us to the City Inspector right now.”

“I’ve got it,” says Gavin as he takes the broom from my hand. “Go home for the day. I’ll get in touch with you later with an update.”

Broomless and helpless, I make my way toward Yas who is still sitting on the floor catching her breath in her own little world.

“Are you hurt?” I ask her.

“No, just in shock.”

“Me too,” I say. “I can’t believe that happened.”

“I can’t believe you knewit wasgoingto happen. How is that possible?”

“I didn’tknowit was going to happen. I just...had a feeling.”

“A bad feeling. Specifically about me. Sitting in this exact spot. Regarding that particular ceiling tile. That’s awfully…coincidental, don’t you think?”

This is a trap. I know Yas doesn’t believe in coincidences.

I say nothing more for the moment, as I look around in the room. No one is still here other than Gavin and the engineers, and neither of them can hear this conversation. So when I know it’s just the two of us, I confess something that sounds really crazy.

“When our hands touched at the desk…I saw the future.”

3

Chapter Three

Joe n’ Flow canceled the rest of the classes for the day as Gavin had to make himself available for an impromptu visit from the City Inspector, courtesy of the worst possible random customers the studio has ever had. I don’t know if the engineers were more excited that they were able to witness a structural failure in real-time, or that they successfully evaded having to do a downward facing dog for the first time in their lives. Regardless, the closure didn’t bode well for our regulars—this includes Yasmin, who was depending on the forty-five-minute flow to complete her morning ritual, so much so, she panic bought a drop-in class at some chain yoga place in Pacific Beach(PB is the cross-town antithesis of OB) an hour later. “Soulless” she described it via text. “Absolutely soulless.”

With my day unexpectedly cleared, I went on to treat myself to a leisurely afternoon strolling the shops of OB. For as long as I can remember, I’ve made it a habit to do two things on my birthday: go for a long walk by myself, and buy myself some new piece of clothing.

The walk part stems from my Intro to Anthropology course in college, where I learned that aWalkaboutis a rite of passage in Australian Aboriginal society during which time adolescent males live in the wilderness as a show of spiritually transitioning into manhood. I liked the concept of that, so I tweaked it ever so slightly to be more gender-inclusive and less rigorous. So, for the better part of the last five years, I have made it a point to spend time outside walking as far as I can before my legs get too tired to take another step. I reflect on the year I had and attempt to connect with what’s ahead in my life. Today, the latter feels especially hard, but I still pushed myself—one foot in front of the other.

And for the clothing part, I’ve worn all black my entire adult life. Not because Steve Jobs did it, but because I once heard that your clothes tell someone a lot about you. I don’t subscribe to that. If I run into my soulmate in the yoga studio, I don’t want a floral maxi dress, or neon tube top, or yellow halter top doing the talking.Iwant to do the talking. A simple black t-shirt and leggings says nothing, which means if Mr. Right wants to get to know me, he’ll have to make conversation. And that’s the stubborn story behind why I add one black piece of clothing to my wardrobe each year and will do so until I’ve met the one. Today clearly isn’t that day, which is why I shopped local and added a black long-sleeved A-line dress with a contrasting white collar to my collection.

By the time I returned home from my walkabout/shopping excursion,Yas texted me again to thank me for saving her life—or at least her perfectly symmetrical facial features—amidst a close call. While I assured her it was no big deal, she insisted upon having me over for a birthday drink before my appointment with Esther. Yas lives with her husband, Gordon, an often-traveling author of best-selling business self-help books. They have a glorious condo in a boutique, mid-rise building with lots of hotel-like amenities in a neighborhood called Little Italy, just down the street from the psychic. I take her up on the invite, primarily because I don’t have any booze in my own house at the moment and I feel like “a littletipsy” is the way to go into my forced visit to Ms. Higgins.

“Your place is amazing,” I say, as Yas lets me into her top-floor corner unit.

“Thanks,” she says, handing me a champagne flute. “A littleblanc de blancfor the birthday girl.”

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