An itchy left hand means you’ll receive money; an itchy right hand means you’ll lose it

[Scene: A sunny afternoon in São Paulo. Marcos and Lúcia are sitting in a café, sipping on fresh-squeezed orange juice.]

Marcos: (scratching his left hand vigorously)
Lúcia! My left hand’s been itching all day! You know what that means, right?

Lúcia:
That you should moisturize?

Marcos:
No! It means money’s coming my way! It happened last month too — my hand itched like crazy and two days later, I found R$50 in my jacket pocket.

Lúcia: (laughing)
You probably forgot you left it there. That’s not a miracle, it’s just poor memory management.

Marcos:
Come on, you can’t deny the timing was perfect. My vovó always said, “Left hand itch, cash is rich. Right hand itch, wallet’s snitch.” And she was never wrong.

Lúcia:
Wait, did she rhyme in English or Portuguese?

Marcos:
Don’t be smart. You know what I mean.

Lúcia:
I do. I just don’t believe the universe is scratching your palm to send you financial updates. If that were true, I’d just scratch my left hand all day and become a millionaire.

Marcos: (smirking)
Well, it has to be natural. If you force it, the universe knows you’re being greedy.

Lúcia: (raising an eyebrow)
Oh, of course. The universe has rules now. So what happens if both hands itch?

Marcos:
Then… you’ll receive money and lose it. Fast in, fast out. It’s like… cosmic budgeting.

Lúcia: (laughs)
Marcos, you do realize there’s a scientific explanation for itchy hands, right? It could be dry skin, allergies, nerves… even something boring like detergent residue.

Marcos:
Okay, Dr. Science, then explain this: two years ago, my right hand itched before I went to that poker game with João. Guess what? I lost R$200 that night.

Lúcia:
You also went in with zero strategy and tried to bluff with a pair of threes. I’d say that’s more cause and effect than cosmic palm alerts.

Marcos: (grinning sheepishly)
Alright, alright, maybe that one’s fair. But these signs aren’t meant to be scientific. They’re like… life’s little nudges. Warnings, blessings, you know?

Lúcia:
Sure, I get that. Traditions make us feel connected to the past, to our families. But just because something’s been passed down doesn’t mean it’s true. My grandmother believed sleeping with a fan on would kill you — I still wake up every morning.

Marcos: (mock gasp)
You what? That’s dangerous, Lúcia! You’re playing with the wind gods!

Lúcia: (laughing)
See? That’s what I mean. You’re charmingly ridiculous.

Marcos:
And you’re charmingly skeptical. But I’d rather live in a world where a little itch means I’ll buy myself a new pair of shoes soon.

Lúcia:
And I’d rather check my bank account to know if I can actually afford those shoes.

Marcos: (shrugging)
Tomato, tomahto.

Lúcia: (teasing)
Alright, but if you do get money this week, I want proof. A timestamped photo with your left hand and the cash.

Marcos:
Deal! And if I lose money… you owe me moisturizer.

Lúcia:
Deal. But I’m buying the scientific, fragrance-free kind. No voodoo oils.

Marcos:
Spoilsport.

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[They both laugh and clink their glasses. Despite their differences, the conversation ends with playful respect — a blend of old beliefs and modern logic served with orange juice and a lot of good humor.]