One day in my early twenties, working in a small bookstore in Iowa, a man came to the checkout with his selection of books.
As I joked with one of the women in the back room, who obviously hadn’t gotten my punch-line, I remarked to the man, “no one ever seems to get my jokes. I think they’re funny!”
Smiling to myself anyway, I began ringing up his purchases when he quietly asked me, “How does it make you feel when people tease you about losing your car keys.”
I turned to him, surprised, and asked him how he could possibly know that about me. (I am notorious about losing my keys, my cell phone… everything.)
He smiled softly and said, “Because you’re an intuitive.”
I was so startled by his comment, I couldn’t really respond. I’m not sure I was even in a state where I could understand what he was talking about… but nevertheless, my subconscious stored that memory away for a later time.
I never thought to ask the man what an intuitive was.
Or how he knew that I was.
I never saw him again.