the nest the heart the home

An octogenarian, a psychic, she'd met at Starbucks came to Thanksgiving dinner.
He told me that his favorite ex-wife threw a grandfather clock at him. It was an antique, an heirloom, and she hurled it at him as punishment for waking her from a nap.
He told me that he knew all about lesbians. He'd come upon sobbing bull dyke, and they'd danced until dawn. He said that he was the first man she'd kissed with tongue.
He told me that a woman named Cassie was writing a book about him. He wanted to fall in love with her because he had a soft spot for mean women who spent his money.
He read my cards (all queens and swords) and told me to keep doing what I've always done. It'll work out eventually.
He told me that my eyes are windows and I must resist the urge to look away.
He said he'd teach me to use my energy to read people. He said I had that power, my windows told him all about me.
He asked me to take his picture.
He told me that I am an artist and a teacher and that I have a scar on my right knee (I do).
And that's about when he set the carpet on fire with his napkin. The hostess's boyfriend put out the fire, and we waited outside for the smoke to clear before coming back in for pumpkin pie.