The first person I met in Bangkok was Mr. Deep. I got in at 2:00am the night before and was still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes as I stepped onto the platform of the Sky Train station at Thong Lor. The platform was deserted save for a well-heeled businessman. I looked at the man in the suit, he looked back at me. I smiled, he smiled. And then he said, ‘You just move to Bangkok–lucky, lucky lady!’

How could I resist? I walked ten meters down the platform to ask him how in the heck . . . .

‘Because I am Sri Lankan astrologist. My name Mr. Deep,’

‘So what’s your day job?’

He took offense: ‘I told you, I am astrologist!’ And then, with cosmic timing, he fielded a very important astrological call on his BlackBerry Pearl.

We ended up having tea together. The next day I started sleeping with 33 limes under my pillow.

I know I look like I’m taking a piss, but I wanted to show the detailing on this classic white blouse by Elizabeth and James (yes, that’s Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen’s line): three delicate buttons that loop in back when you want a fitted, ultra-feminine look. 

When we sat down for tea, Mr. Deep tore the edge off a sheet of paper and scribbled something down. He had me clutch the wadded-up paper in the palm of my hand as we talked–about life and love and the infamous Bangkok heat. I didn’t mention any names or hint at a particular situation, and yet Mr. Deep told me there was a man in my life who I just couldn’t shake. ‘Now open your palm,’ he said. I unfolded the tiny fragment. My ex’s name was written on the piece of paper I had been holding all along, in a sloping, Sri Lankan hand.

Riot-of-color cotton skirt: ESP (Saim Paragon)

Mr. Deep crumpled another piece of paper and stuffed it into my hand. I sipped my iced green tea. ‘What’s your favorite flower?’ he asked.

I had to think about it for a second. Orchid.

‘How old are you?’

33.

‘What’s your biggest worry?’

My health.

‘Now open it.’

I unfurled my palm. This time the piece of paper Mr. Deep had placed in my hand minutes before read Orchid, 33, Health.

Red wallet: Italia Design (Delhi Airport)

Mr. Deep placed one last bit of paper into my hand. ‘Now write down a four-digit number,’ he said. I thought of four numbers. ‘Now write down four more.’ I jotted them down. ‘Another.’ Okay. ‘Now think of four more.’ The list was growing. ‘Now add the numbers together.’ I carefully did the arithmetic; my numbers added up to 2,779.

‘Now,’–he sounded serious as the grave–‘if you open your palm and the number I have written is the same as the number you have written, your problem can be solved. If you open your palm and it is a different number, your problem is between you and God.’

I opened my palm. I smoothed out the piece of paper: 2,779.

Stone bracelets: Central Market, Phnom Penh, & David Akins’ Reflexions Center giftshop, Nampa, Idaho

Pepto-Bismol pink ballet flats with hidden wedge: J. Crew

This was incredible news, but Mr. Deep told me there were a few things left to do: I needed to buy 33 limes. I had to sleep with them under my pillow. And each day I must walk through a busy crossroads and chuck one lime into the intersection.

Did I do it? Am I doing it? This is Bangkok. I’d be crazy not to toss those limes.

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