Fortune Cookie: A Short (Short) Story

Sometimes I let my words carry me away. Instead of imagining a story/scene before I write, I let the story imagine itself. To compare this idea to drawing, think doodling: letting lines carry you away and not caring where they take you or if the end product is "bad". It's not exactly free-writing, because that, to me, is even more whimsical; you basically write without stopping for a set amount of time (or until you've had enough) and see what comes out. What I did here (and do often) is take a very simple idea, let it build a scene in my mind, then let the scene play out while I record it.

In this case the idea was "fortune cookie". A man and a woman sitting at a two-person table in a restaurant was the image that came to mind. The first words spoken were the woman's, and I just listened:


     "What does it say?"
     "I don't know."
     "Read it."
     "Hold on." The small-shouldered man twisted the plastic wrap through his fingers. The crinkling wrapper blended with the sound of the crunching fortune cookie in his mouth. "I'm not done eating it."
     The woman across the table sipped her tea. It was cold and she wrinkled her nose at the bitter flavor. "If you don't read it, I will."
     "No, you won't," he said through crumbs.
     "I will." She sat straight, indignant to his claim.
     "Go ahead, then."
     "No. Just hurry up," she said, slouching in defeat.
     The man put the last piece on his tongue. He saw her staring into his mouth and he held it open a suspended moment. The edges of the orange cookie darkened as his saliva seeped in.
     "You're gross." Her face assumed the same expression it had in reaction to the tea. She didn't look away. He smiled, his mouth closing as it's corners turned upward. She smiled with him.
He swallowed. The man had been holding the fortune in his hand, careful not to look at it. He never read them until he had eaten the whole cookie. "Ready?" he asked.
     "Go," she said.
     He pinched the small paper and pulled it tight.
     "Any good?" she leaned in.
     The man read his fortune to himself, his face expressionless. Stray gray strands of hair were popping out of his sweater, grazing his neck and wrists, glinting in the artificial light. The strands wavered as he sat back.
     The woman leaned forward even more. "What does it say?"
     He crumpled the paper and rolled it in his fingers. "Nothing good."
     "You're lying."
     "You're right."
     "Are you going to tell me?"
     "No."
     "Why not?"
     "Because you already know what it says."
     "No, I don't."
     "You do." He tossed the paper ball in the duck sauce.
     "If I do then I don't know I do!" She put her hands up. "You're an ass. Tell me what it says!"
     "Do you trust me?" he asked.
     "Of course, now speak."
     "I am speaking."
     "You - that's not right. It's wrong. I waited patiently-"
     "Patiently?" He laughed and sipped the bitter tea with a smile. "I don't know about that."
     "Tell me!" She yelled from the edge of her seat, loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to take notice.
     The man flinched, shocked. His eyes were wide and his mouth was open a crack. The woman realized how loud she had been and tried to relax.
     "That was dramatic," the man said.
     "It's your fault."
     "I know."
     "I love you."
     "I love you, too." He reached for her hand and rolled his fingers across her knuckles.
     "I still want to know what it said."
     "I know."
     "Will you tell me?" She squeezed his hand. "Please."
     The man looked down. She let go of his hand.
     "Forget it," she said.
     "Okay."
     "Do you want to know what my fortune says?"
     "If you want to tell me."
     "I don't."
     "I know."
     She threw the small piece of paper at him. It lost momentum and landed in the duck sauce beside the man's soggy balled up fortune.
     "Shit!" She reached into the duck sauce and pulled out her dripping orange piece. "Look what you did!"
     "I'm sorry."
     "No, you're not."
     "I'm not."
     "Is that a question or a statement?" she asked.
     "A statement."
     "Do you love me anymore?"
     "Of course."
     "Are you lying?"
     "I don't know."
     "What?" The woman tilted her head, a hint of hurt in her eyes.
     His hand was where she had left it, his fingers curled around the space hers had rested. "I'm sorry."
     "Are you serious?"
     "I think I am." His woe was out, weighing him down, his eyebrows a sagging sadness.
     "Tell me what the fortune was."
     The man closed his hand and cried.
     The woman stood up and leaned close to his ear. "You're embarrassing me."
     He shook his head. She walked out.