Enfield Enchantment

The sign said "Madam Celestine – See Your Future" in faded gold letters. Emmanuel pushed open the door, recorder in pocket, ready to expose another fraud.

She sat behind a table draped in velvet, candles flickering, crystal ball gleaming. Sierra Leonean, he guessed—dark skin, full figure wrapped in flowing fabrics, silver jewelry catching the light.

"You don't believe," she said before he'd spoken. "You've come to write something unflattering."

"I'm writing a piece on—"

"Frauds and charlatans. Yes, I know." She smiled, and it transformed her face. "Sit. Let me change your mind."

"Your mother's name starts with A," she said, eyes closed. "Adaeze. She died three years ago. You still carry her rosary in your pocket."

Emmanuel's hand went involuntarily to his jacket. The rosary was there—always was.

"Lucky guess."

"There's a woman. Someone from your past. Brown eyes, gap in her teeth. You regret letting her go."

His ex. Exactly.

"And tonight..." She opened her eyes. "Tonight you're going to question everything you think you know."

"About fortune telling?"

"About everything."

"How do you do this?" he demanded. "Research? Cold reading?"

"Some things can't be explained." She stood, moving around the table. This close, he could smell her perfume—sandalwood and something sweeter. "I could tell you it's tricks. Would that make you feel better?"

"It would make sense."

"Some things don't make sense." She was very close now. "Like why I feel drawn to a man who came to destroy my reputation."

"Drawn?"

"I see futures, Emmanuel. I saw you coming weeks ago." Her hand touched his chest. "I saw this moment. This choice."

"What choice?"

"You can leave. Write your article. Call me a fraud." Her hand traveled up to his face. "Or you can stay. See what happens when two people stop fighting what's meant to be."

"That's very presumptuous."

"Is it?" She kissed him, soft and sure. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't feel it too."

He couldn't tell her that. Because from the moment he'd walked in, something had shifted. Some skepticism had crumbled.

"This is insane."

"The best things usually are."

Her back room was a bed covered in silk, more candles, shadows dancing on the walls. She undressed like she was unveiling mysteries, each layer revealing more of her thick, beautiful body.

"I didn't see this in my future," he admitted, watching her.

"No. This is my future. I chose to share it with you."

She pulled him down onto the silk, wrapping around him like she'd done it a thousand times. Maybe in some vision, she had.

"Stop thinking," she whispered. "Start feeling."

He felt. Everything. Her warmth, her softness, her rhythm. She was magic, and he was completely enchanted.

They moved together in the candlelight, her thick body rising and falling, her voice murmuring words in languages he didn't know. When she came, it was with a cry that seemed to shake the room.

"Your turn," she said, and did something with her hips that made stars explode behind his eyes.

Afterward, in the tangle of silk and limbs, he laughed.

"So much for my exposé."

"Write what you want. The truth doesn't need defending."

"What is the truth?"

"That some connections are written before we're born." She kissed his chest. "You and I were always going to end up here."

Emmanuel's article never got published. He wrote something else instead—a personal essay about skepticism and belief, about a woman who saw what others couldn't.

They dated for a year before he moved into the flat above her shop.

"Did you see this coming?" he asked her one morning.

"Every moment." She smiled. "Though I didn't see you snoring quite so loudly."

"The mystical Madam Celestine, reduced to complaining about snoring."

"Even fortune tellers have limits." She pulled him close. "Now come back to bed. I foresee a very interesting morning."

He'd come to Enfield to expose a fraud. Instead, he'd found something real.

The future, it turned out, was full of surprises.