Being the logical person that I am, I never took to astrology, though I managed to find myself in the arms of many a man who took it as seriously as the weather report. Out of my oft-lauded tolerance, I listened to **** explain to me in great depth what my sign entailed and what I (unbeknownst to me!) want out of life. Thanks to his lessons, I now have a general idea what this whole “Leo” thing is about, though this new knowledge did little to convince me of astrology’s legitimacy, thus negating the knowledge.

But lately I have met a barage of patrons who insist upon knowing me by nothing else, as if knowing my birthday is the key to KNOWING ALL. I have grown used to the question and have refrained from lying because fucking with people’s minds is just wrong on general principal, but today, I discovered that the birthday is not the only indicator of astrological signature.

He approached the counter, looked at my face, started, then said something to the effect of, “Your eyes! Virgo?”

Which left me with the new found fear that astrological fanatics more observant than he have the ability to deduce my sign without even knowing my birthday. While I was wondering what the fuck my eyes had to do with Virgo, I answered, “No. Do you… want some coffee? Tea?”

“You’re not a Virgo?”

“No.”

“That’s funny.”

We stared at each other in silence. I was searching his face for some insight into his prescription. The audacity it takes to inform a total stranger of their personality traits and personal quirks. To stab at the dark by the light of someone else’s eyes.

As if on cue, a co-worker flipping through a magazine walked in and asked me loudly, “You’re a Leo right? Do you want to hear your destiny?”

“Actually, apparently I’m a Virgo.”

The man across the counter squinted at my eyes as if there was something he had missed, and I wanted to tell him that far from my time of birth, he had missed a lot of things.