Foggy Avenues in Bloomington, MN

Des Flores can't hear people's thoughts if they take place presently. She can't predict what somebody is going to say or do seconds before they act. She can see memories and memories only. When she was thirteen, she discovered that it wasn't just her imagination answering questions about people. She could see what traumas manufactured shitty characteristics in everyone she met, which made leveling with people simpler. But it made all interactions exhausting. Her mind skipped to the three-month mark where every ounce of childhood baggage was already known. She knew the middle-aged stranger in the minivan honked because an incomplete stop is what took his daughter from him, years before. She knew the cashier at the dollar store complimented her choice of nail polish because her wife wore it in high school.
And she knew that if people knew of her gift, they'd avoid her. Having secrets was hardly an option. Everything that once was would be invaded by her inexplicit key to anyone's mind.
Dessie threw everything she owned into her chipped, blue SUV and moved to Port Angeles for the rain and for the peace of mind. For the space to ask questions, but instead, there were too many answers.