I slid my finger under a corner of the envelope, admittedly a smidge freaked out by the envelope's warmth. I removed the finger, and held the envelope up to the weak light generated by the window. I could see the outline of what appeared to be a folded rectangle of paper. I smoothed the envelope in my hands, trying to feel any irregular objects in there. What are you afraid of, Phoenix? Big knives springing out and slicing you apart? Biochemically altered mutant-paper that smells deceptively like roses but really is alive and poisonous? Jumps on your face? Eats your brains? You'd be lucky to die at the hands of such advanced postal-weaponry. Go ahead. Meet your honorable death.
Having received a barrage of epiphanies on that particular day, I give in to the next like it was cake. I reinsert said finger, and carefully unseal the envelope glue.
Nestled in the white envelope was a folded piece of faded red paper. I unfolded it and carefully smoothed it out on the coffee table. In black ink, these words were printed:
ZHI M�O fortune telling
tarot-palms-numerology-dreams-tea-leaves
In the Pearl Market
707 Lowest Level
Open all Day
Dreaming Men Are Haunted Men
My heart threatened to explode in my ribcage. Sweat bloomed on my forehead. My hands shook, and the sweat stained the edges of the paper, cheap red ink staining my fingertips. I turned the sheet over.
�
I knew where the Pearl Market was. Everyone in the whole damn city knew where Pearl Market was. It was in Chinatown, right on the water. It was an apartment complex of stores, groceries, clothing shops, smoke shops, novelty shops, and of course, fortune-tellers. I'd passed by them before, seen the leathery faces of the mediums as they puzzled over someone's palm or clicked a set of runes around the table. Every now and then, gnarled fingers with thick yellow nails would press a worn tarot card down in front of a customer, contemplating the face. During the week, the air was thick and choked with incense and smoke and fried food. The floors were wooden, which was a curiosity, and polished by generations of feet wearing them smooth and shiny. On the lower levels, where most of the fortune tellers and apothecaries set up their businesses, the light bulbs gleamed dully over people's heads. On the upper level, exposed to the street, venders hawked their goods, flowers and spices, exotic fruits and vegetables, things like starfruit and honey melons. There was always food frying in the delis and someone selling candy out of a cardboard box in front of the stands. There was a constant chatter of Chinese, the lyrical notes floating past me, the children's laughter ringing in my ears. I went there every Sunday to pick up some fresh flowers and buy tea. Best tea in the city.
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