When his fiancée died, his thoughts didn’t immediately go to the fortune teller who told him that he would be unmarried in this lifetime. After the wake and after the funeral, he lived hazy days that bled into one another with no sense of rhythm besides the punch that he sucked up each time he realized he was longing for her arm on his or her face in his neck, then one pathetic morning, as he stared at the sink full of blood that he had dredged up while he brushed his teeth—an act he did not remember doing but must have, because where else did the minty foam and pinkish bubbles come from?—he remembered.

He remembered that the fortune teller said nothing else, after simply stating that he would not have a wife.

The next thing he knew, standing before the sink, was that his fist was bleeding too, having slammed down into his shaver. He watched, vaguely, blood stream, full of life.

The blood dripped and he tried to squeeze his memory for more details. Did she say anything else, and did he ask her why he would be unmarried? No, he didn’t think so, it wasn’t good to probe, and at that time he was hoping she was wrong, because he was dating this girl then, and she was wonderful and she was beautiful and she was… But the fortune teller was terribly right, because he was never going to marry.

He sat on the cold floor, the blood soaking directly into his shorts, already turning brown in the air.

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