Psychic-Delic.

There is a bonafide psychic at The K-mart.

Yes, I know.

I am wiping the handle of my cart with the complimentary sani-wipe, for my shopping convenience, when I meet The Psychic.

He is short. And balding. And I believe that he is missing some teeth.

Note: I digress.

With a grand, sweeping motion he gestures toward the sepia-toned photos on assorted easels beside him. They are mostly pictures of kids in spurs and cowboy hats and boas and flapper dresses, maybe, and holsters. Yes, holsters. Apparently he is saying that a real Hollywood photographer is coming right here, to this very spot, to take photos for just ten dollars and did he mention that it is a real Hollywood photographer?

As I smile one of those weak, no-teeth smiles while I shake my head, he transforms into The Psychic. Right there in The K-mart.

He dares to make eye contact with me and says, Wouldn't your grandkids look great in a photo like this, taken by a real Hollywood photographer?

I freeze.

Grandkids?

I stare at The Psychic. For he truly has to be a psychic.

There is no other way that he could possibly know that I am almost-a-Grandma because please-oh-my-heck-tell-me that no one else would possibly ever realize, simply by looking at me at The K-mart, that I am ...

Old.

Oh yeah. He's a psychic, for sure.