Every cruel word, a coin spent

The curse announces itself at half past two in the afternoon, four hours after you told a tourist her hat looked like a dead animal. You are standing in front of your bathroom mirror, and there is a freckle on your nose that was not there this morning. Then another, on your cheek. Small, brown, plain little freckles, arriving one after another like a slow leak.

You remember the fortune-teller's face. The way she didn't flinch when you told her that nobody honest charges money for the future. She just folded her hands and said, 'Then spend it carefully.' You thought it was a scammer's parting line. It was a receipt.

Your phone buzzes on the sink — a delivery notification, nothing important — and you catch your own eyes in the mirror, still sharp, still yours, above a face that has started quietly paying your debts. Downstairs, Tomas is pulling espresso shots for the afternoon rush, and the whole loud, insult-rich city is waiting outside.