Page 3 of Tango

It didn’t help; she still felt a little off.

The knock sounded again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Piper called, forcing a smile onto her lips to warm her tone. “I’m coming. Hold your horses.”

Chanti had been looking forward to tonight for weeks. And when Piper pulled the door open, Chanti was bouncing her heels off the hall carpet with her hands clasped under her chin, grinning from ear to ear. “Ready?”

“Grabbing my stuff and we’re off,” Piper said, reaching behind her, snagging her coat from the hook, her phone from the floor, and her key lanyard from the bowl on her entrance table.

Chanti had shoved her hands into her jacket pockets and was dancing foot to foot like a boxer as Piper locked up.

They started down the stairs, out the main door, and down the road.

It was a fifteen-minute walk to the comedy club where Chanti had tickets to see a comedian/tarot reader do his thing, answering questions from the audience.

The last time Chanti had bought them tickets to one of these gigs, it was a clairvoyant, and that woman was so precise that the people she was “reading” had to have been plants. Had to be. The plants were damned good at their acting, but yeah, that whole thing was impossible.

The air smelled damp and a bit dead-fishy as they walked through Georgetown from the top of Pennsylvania Avenue, chatting about everything and nothing.

“Last night I dreamed I was a panini,” Chanti said as the building came into view.

“Interesting. Which part of the sandwich life-cycle did you experience?”

“When I was aware of my dreams, I already had my meats and cheeses. My dream picked up when someone put my top bread on, then put me in the press to squish me.”

“Oh?” Piper pulled her brows tightly together.

“It was hotter than I expected, and I was sweating. I ended up having to throw off my covers.”

“Early menopause,” Piper said.

“Shut up.” Chanti laughed as she trotted down the sidewalk to join the line at the entrance.

The ticket takers were efficient, and the venue was intimate enough that they had no trouble finding their two-top right in front.

They ordered drinks and Piper glanced around. Everyone looked very work-a-day. No one arrived wearing flowing robes bedecked with gemstones or pointy hats.

With an introduction from offstage, the tarot reader guy walked out to face his audience, hand raised in greeting. Dressed in rumpled jeans and a tie-dyed shirt, his beard hung down to his overly large belt buckle.

He looked like he’d just woken up from a nap.

Piper didn’t get a very good first impression.

But this was Chanti’s night. Piper would sip her cocktail, sit back, and just take it in.

“I’m John. Big crowd. Thanks for coming out tonight.”

With the audience clapping, John ducked past the enormous magnifying mirror that tilted to reflect the table surface so the audience could see the cards, too.

John started shuffling his cards as his gaze slid over the audience. His focus held on a man at the table to Piper’s left. “What’s your first name and your question?”

A stagehand hustled over to hand the guy a mic.

“I’m Mack. My question for you tonight is: If I ask her to marry me, will she say yes?”

“Will she say yes?” John repeated as he flipped over three cards.

“Four of Rods, that’s the marriage card. This is going to be a good reading,” Chanti whispered. “Three of Cups, that’s celebrations. Nine of Cups is the happiness card.”