She
was not, nor had she ever been, extraordinary. She was, much to her own mild
and never expressed disappointment, extra ordinary. Not so extra ordinary that
she would catch your eye and force you to take notice, which would have meant
that she was extraordinarily extra ordinary and worth paying attention to. She
was extra ordinary in a way that willed your eyes to glide over her without
registering a presence, your attention would slip from her like a child down a
slide. You would never notice that you could never notice her.
The
day she received a present from her aunt, something extraordinary, she thought
her middling luck had turned. “It has been passed down through the women in our
family,” her aunt told her, presenting the heirloom psychic gift.
She
toyed with her new gift for years but her ingrained extra ordinariness was a
tough force to be reckoned with. When the power of the paranormal butted heads
with her propensity to the very normal, the result was a tie. She never turned
a profit from her gift of prophet. Her clumsy clairvoyance made the psychic
un-chic, the occult paled to common.
She
was an average medium.
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