Page 2 of Hot Girls Date Demons

But what Madame really suffers from is loneliness.

And I understand that disease better than most.

She used to work as a fortune teller on Coney Island back in the eighties.

According to her, she once read the palms of three mobsters, a soap opera actress, and a man who claimed to be Elvis.

Personally, I suspect the last one was just some guy named Frank from Queens.

Still, she's a character.

And she's sweet.

She also insists on reading everyone's fortunes whenever the mood strikes.

“You're going to meet a tall blonde.”

“You should avoid seafood on Thursdays.”

“Your second husband will be terrible in bed.”

She's been wildly inaccurate so far.

Which somehow makes her more entertaining.

“There you are, Pussycat!” Madame announces happily when I step into her room.

I laugh immediately.

Madame is tiny and wrinkled, with frizzy white hair puffed around her face like a cloud and enough orange lipstick to paint a small house.

I adore her.

“How are you, Madame?” I ask, leaning down to give her a one-armed hug.

“I'm terrific, Josie. How are those pussycats?”

For years she's teased me about my name and some old cartoon I've never actually seen.

I just roll with it.

“They're great. Thriving. Living their best lives.”

She nods solemnly.

“Excellent.”

I glance at her chart.

“Looks like they gave you your vitamins.”

She sniffs.

“Terrible service. No tea.”

I gasp dramatically.

“The horror.”