The afternoon he learned he had skin cancer, Mike thought of Josette, the first of his three wives, and the craziest. “Reality is your comfort zone,” she’d said. “It isn’t healthy.” She’d claimed to be the great-granddaughter of a Gypsy king and put a hex on Mike when they split.
“It’s family tradition. You’ve been cursed to live forever.
Don’t worry, it never works.”
He’d visited Josette in hospice years later. She’d said she was confident mystic forces would provide for her.
He cried that afternoon as he remembered her, her ashes now scattered in the ancient Gypsy homeland of Detroit.