A few nights ago we got dinner at the place downstairs, beneath my spinach green carpet and mini Whirlpool fridge that hums at 4 in the morning. I did a little of my own fortune-telling.
You will have two sons, both of them gingers, because it turns out you have a recessive ginger gene. Also, your living room will have dark hardwood flooring.
Our fortune cookies came back, beige Americanized cookies of socioeconomic survival. They went a little something like this: it takes guts to get out of the ruts. And: keep your future plans secret for now.
Sounded about right. A few weeks ago, she’d ordered glasses online from a holy religious-affiliated shop online. The lenses came back with scripture on the sides. A sign, she said.