Tre was a study of threes. His cards always got three shuffles; he always dealt only the top three; there were always three dimes in his cup; he always kept three pencils on hand; and his notebooks made copies in triplicate.
Nobody knew his real name or what he was called because he never spoke. He spent his days and evenings busking behind a small, rickety table that had a precisely drawn set of instructions on it, and a pile of well-worn but cared for tarot cards.
Passersby would stop, look at his setup, and the curious would take his cards, make three shuffles, and deal out three face up cards, placing them just so on the instructions. Tre would look up from his notebook, glance at the cards, turn to a fresh page, and draft out a poem. Then he would hand the poem to his customer.
The customers never came back to his table. Tre had no regulars unlike some of the other buskers in the square, and yet all of his would act similarly. They shouted, or they cried, or they laughed; they got angry, or they got distraught, or they thought it was a joke.