Rowena strolls into the tearoom. The orange shag carpeting sticks to her sandals, the air reeks of patchouli and leftover turkey gravy. She tosses the package to Marge, then heads for the door. “Hey, don’t you want your palm read?” Rowena turns. “Okay, but I’m in no mood for bullshit.”
Written by Debbie Lynn Miller
Brooklyn satire writer Debbie L. Miller is published in The Belladonna Comedy, Frazzled, The Haven, The StopGap, Greener Pastures, and The Syndrome Magazine.