Muddled

On rainy days Jasmine's thoughts were muddled, messy, slushy like snow that's been in the streets of the city for so long. On rainy days, foggy days, it was hard to concentrate on the past or the future and the present could only be seen in fractions. On these rainy days Jasmine didn't know where she was going or where she came from. The worn, peeling sign said "Psychic. Fin Out Wht Your Futur Holds" because some of the letters had washed off years ago. On rainy days the water beats against the wide glass windows . The rows of candles, cards and herbs look frightening; the rows of saints on the windows look menacing, a cruel expression on even the gentlest of faces. On rainy days Jasmine places her tarot cards in their velvet bag before lunch time, puts her crystal ball back on the shelf before noon, calls it a day while the sun is still at it's highest point in the sky somewhere behind those clouds. "It's no use," she mutters. "I can't see anything on days like this." On rainy days Jasmine's botanica is closed, and if you approach the door hoping to find a clue or a cure, all you'll find is a locked door and angry saints staring at you from the window.