Rosela forced herself not to start at his cold hands and kept a firm smile on her face. One would imagine in such a hand-oriented profession, he’d make sure his main tools were at least warm.
Her expression froze as he gave his fortune, a twitch in her jaw developing at his words.
‘Ragged.’
‘Flaws.’
‘Simple.’
She sat motionless as he finished, still in shock. Her voice squeaked out once, and then turned into an indignant squeak, spurring into action.
”How-How dare you!” She stood up in a rush, chair clattering.
”You charlatan! You clearly have no idea what you’re talking about! The only fortune you’ve told me is that you have no sense of fashion and you have no idea how my shop’s going to do!” Straightening her skirt, her nostrils flared in anger as he shooed her away.
”And I’ll have you know,” she said harshly, conveying the deepest of insults.
”All your fancy clothes? Are tacky.” With that, she strode out into the crowd, mumbling insults.
It was difficult to keep her face blank as she nearly ran back to her house. Her chest still burned, but it wouldn’t do to walk through the city plainly furious when nobody could tell why. The moment she stepped in her door however, the mask dissolved and her jaw jutted outwards in an attempt to keep from screaming. All six fists slammed against the back of her front door. How dare that hack insult her? She hadn’t paid five whole mizas for fashion advice! No wonder he was dressed so tackily; he scammed people out of their hard earned mizas!
Two hands slapped her dining room chair to the floor, and she kicked it away to rattle against the edge of the bed. She shoved against the heavy wooden table, and there was a loud clatter as it toppled it its side. She kicked a small log at the unlit hearth and dragged her hands across the top of her chest, attempting to upend it. With a furious cry, she finally succeeded, her few things tumbling out of it.
The tears finally came at seeing her things, her precious few things, spilling out onto the dusty floor. They were simple, weren’t they? Slowly dragging up her light,
simple, cloak, she started to cry into the woolen folds.
She wasn’t flawed.
She wasn’t flawed.