the monk on san pablo

"you were born on a Friday" he said to me. "you should be careful about getting fat." i looked down at my thighs, cleared my throat. 

He continued to scratch dull pencilled numbers in rows, in columns, thai characters with loops. a chill hit the small of my back from the haze of the south san franciscan morning, as other saffronly robed monks milled about, entering the warehouse with purpose and without sandals. 

it was an early morning. i had struggled awake and driven up a high hill and down a high hill and onto 880 south, without much enthusiasm. i was outgrowing my love of divination, but was not completely able to let go yet. i wanted answers. i didn't want answers. i needed my mocha choco latte. i wanted to be a vegan. i wanted to let go. i wanted to escape my life, shape it and scrub the grime away. this is what this has always been about.

my partner in crime, lover of all things augery and one who lived on a high hill, watched the Monk perched in a knot on his chair. she smiled at me as the Monk told me to be careful with my money, and that i would be great with real estate, or retail, and that i would be a good leader of a large group of people. 

he went on to answer my questions about him with a coin toss 50-50: yes, he was into me previously. he is like a chicken, he goes back and forth. don't give him more than 2 years. i stopped caring.  i wanted a coffee.  

my lady next to me had her questions answered and away we slipped into the fog, leaving the empathic knot with his pencil and columns of numbers behind, scribbling sweetly and serenely.