You’re walking home from work one night and taking shortcuts through a labyrinth of dark city alleyways to meet someone on time. Suddenly, a stranger parts the shadows in front of you, comes close and asks you to hold out your palm. You oblige.
The stranger beckons me.
“Who is this dishevelled man? What does he want?”
I wonder but yet I approach him.
He asks me to show him my palm.
“I don’t believe in palmistry, my man.”
“What else could it be?”, I think.
He is not to be fobbed off.
“Show me your palm!”, he commands in a deep voice.
“I am not interested. I don’t retain faith in astrology either.”
And hands me his bag.
“Hold it for me. I’ve got to run. Bags are not allowed where I’m going.”
He disappears into the adjacent public latrine.