Lingers Like A Curse

During my stay in Caracas, I encountered a shriveled old fortune teller, brown as a butternut, plying her trade in the rooms over a Pharmacia (long story); she beckoned and I followed. After studying my palms with Talmudic intensity, she declared stoically that she had good news and bad. “What?!” I barked unable to conceal my desperation, “Tell me!”