When I was seventeen, I had my fortune told on Mardi Gras day by a homeless man in a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts shop. While I was twisted around in the booth to better hear the schizophrenic vagrant, my sister and a friend poured salt in my coffee, which I would not discover until the brew was cold and almost crunchy from their prank. The man did not smell good and wouldn鈥檛 accept a donut but took note of my grey socks, predicting that no one would fiddle with my liver and foretold of a 鈥渄ark man鈥� with answers. Fond of my liver, I tried to force validation of the second prediction, pinning the part of the dark man on first the elderly meat carver at the restaurant where I worked, and se
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