The Oracle of Temple Street

The sign above the door read simply: Madame Zora. Below it, someone had drawn a crude sphinx in purple chalk, its wings slightly smudged as if trying to escape the brickwork.

Clara stood outside, clutching her iphone like a rosary. The screen lit up every thirty seconds with his name—again, again, always the same pattern. She'd stopped answering hours ago.

Three unread messages from David. One from her mother asking if she was coming to dinner Sunday.

She pushed open the door. A bell chimed.

Inside smelled of incense and dust and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers. The room was small, cluttered with velvet drapes and crystals that caught the afternoon light. In the corner, a calico cat opened one yellow eye, regarded Clara with ancient judgment, then returned to sleep.

"You're the one who's been standing outside for twenty minutes," Madame Zora said from behind a small table covered in a dark cloth. She was younger than Clara expected—maybe mid-thirties, with hair that fell in waves around sharp features. "Come. Sit."

Clara sat. Madame Zora reached across the table and took Clara's hand, turning it palm-up.

"You've come about the man," she said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"He doesn't see you. Not really." Madame Zora's finger traced the lines on Clara's palm. "You've been waiting. Thinking if you're patient enough, if you're good enough, he'll finally notice what's right in front of him."

Clara's throat tightened. "Is that what you see?"

"I see a woman who's been standing still so long she's forgotten how to walk." Madame Zora looked up. "I see someone who thinks love is a riddle she has to solve. But the sphinx doesn't want you to solve it. It wants you to walk away."

"What happens if I stay?"

"Same thing that's been happening. You become smaller. You become the person waiting by the phone."

The cat in the corner stretched, stood, and jumped onto the table, circling once before settling in Madame Zora's lap. The old woman scratched its ears without looking down.

"What do I do?" Clara asked.

"You already know." Madame Zora released her hand. "You came here not because you need answers. You came because you need someone to tell you that what you already know is true."

Clara's phone buzzed again. David. Always David.

She reached into her pocket, pulled it out, and placed it on the table between them.

"You can leave it," Madame Zora said. "Or you can turn it off. Or you can delete his number. Whatever you choose, choose it because it's what YOU want."

Clara looked at the screen. One more message. A question: "Where are you?"

She picked up the phone, turned it off, and placed it back on the table.

Outside, the afternoon was golden. The sphinx chalk drawing had faded slightly in the sun. Clara walked past it, her hand curling around the phone in her pocket, not checking it, just holding it. For the first time in three years, she didn't feel like she was waiting for anything at all.

Behind her, the cat watched through the window. Then it curled into a circle on the velvet tablecloth and went back to sleep.