This is exactly the scenario my anxious mind likes to concoct for me, when I have to go places and interact with people. You’re going to make a fool of yourself, it tells me.

Well, here it is.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say to the befuddled store clerk when I’ve pulled myself somewhat together and wiped my eyes. “Thank you. I’ll leave now.”

I leave the store, moving in the general direction of my apartment, careful on the scarred and uneven sidewalk.

Now what?

I’m only a minute away from home, passing a row of shops I’ve walked by a thousand times, when I stop. And turn.

There’s a store here, one I haven’t seen before. It’s possible I missed it, I guess. I don’t get out much, and it’s a small storefront shoehorned between a Thai restaurant and a dry cleaner.

The Druid’s Stone, the sign reads in old English font.

Crystals hang in the window beside a little sign with a list. Candles, incense, tarot readings.

On autopilot, I open the door and a little bell dings, announcing my presence.

I glance around the narrow space devoid of people but cluttered with items. One wall is made entirely of dark wood shelves and stuffed with books. A mantel in the rear is lined with candles and repurposed wine bottles full of essential oils, labeled in script. The cash register on the counter in the middle of the space is old, made entirely of some kind of heavy ornate metal and shined up like polished silver. An ink pot with a feathered quill rests next to it. Patchouli mixed with sage and sandalwood infuse the air. It’s like I’ve stepped into an apothecary from a hundred years ago. A cuckoo clock in the corner ticks the seconds. It’s the only sound. The street noise is gone too. It’s kind of eerie.

An arched doorway leads down a hall to another door—a windowed french door. Green is visible through the doors, like a garden is back there, but how can that be when the block is so narrow and there’s an Ikea behind this building?

After a few minutes of glancing around, I wander over to the checkout and lean over the counter to get a better look at the register.

“Hello.”

I jump and spin around. A young lady is right behind me. And I mean young. She can’t be more than sixteen. She’s wearing a Wonder Woman T-shirt and ripped jeans.

She’s too close, in my bubble. I want to step back but can’t since the counter is behind me. I’d have to step around her, but I don’t want to be rude.

“Hi. Um. How do I get my fortune told?” I ask.