While the men were silently praying the Amidah, the meditative part of the service where talking is prohibited, Harry slipped out undetected among a passing group of businessmen. Free at last, free at last, O Lord I am free at last, Harry thought.
Until a henna gaggle of thick-ankled, cleavage-popping aunties and slutted-up sisters emerged from a side door escorting the tiara-wearing Cleopatra bride-to-be. She was ensconced on her royal litter, the curtained couch that was being carried about on the shoulders of her retainers, her burly thick-browed uncles and disco-duded brothers. The aunties were hollering yu-yus, the party battle cries, while the royal princess's painted mother and waddling grandmother carried tubs of mucky, magical, mystical henna. Mud. Fucking mud. Rub it between your palms and good fortune is yours.
Harry froze while he took in the scene. This was the same indifferent little Cleopatra Gomez tutored throughout her high school years to no avail. The little princess had zero interest wasting time on an education when she knew that her hot looks and family connections could deliver the good life on a silver platter. Find the right rich guy like Guy, her husband-to-be and coast for life. Education? Fucking waste of time.
Gomez popped out from among the throng and pulled Harry to the side. "They're doing the henna. We can't miss this," he said while motioning at Harry to follow him."It's for good luck."
Harry followed. Why not? Who knew how things worked in the unseen world of Fortune? Rub some henna between your hand, kiss a mezuzah-- smear shit on your face, who the fuck knows? Try it all, believe in nothing. What did it matter?
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