Fortune Cookies

What does yours say?

Close your eyes first as I read it to you.

He walked by the fortune cookies "factory" in the heart of San Francisco's Chinatown. He had been there twice before. Supposedly this is where the country's fortune cookies come from. An invention of the Chinese immigrants that most Chinese back "home" had never heard of.

The first time he went was before they were charging visitors a dollar to take pictures of the women making the cookies before sending them off to the oven. He remembered being cynical about Chinese being so business-oriented. What was the point of charging that dollar? It was more to challenge the tourists to sneak pictures rather than really making extra income.

Before that annoyance was that first time when he was there. It was crowded, with tourists taking pictures without having to pay yet. It was novelty. Looking at the few women generating billions of fortune cookies to Chinese restaurants around the universe. Or so went the propaganda. The room was small and dark, just like any sweatshop. Why didn't sweatshops invite visitors to come and take pictures (after being charged a fee) of the decrepit working conditions of immigrants? They do that in the slums around the world. He wasn't thinking about that. He was enjoying not the view of the source of the universe's luck, but the woman next to him. He was close to her enough to feel her warmth, feel her smile, feel her excitement that didn't need a camera to reinforce.

This fortune cookie came directly down the block, I guess!

What he loved about her above all was her enthusiasm. She was never cynical, never bitter, never sarcastic. She was full of life. She radiated light.

There are coals and there are diamonds. You are a diamond, while the coals, being made of the same thing as you, suck out energy.

He said to her once. He didn't care whether he himself was a diamond or a piece of coal. He loved being with her.

But did she see him?

Close your eyes.

Why?

I want you to see me. Without your eyes.

That's ridiculous. I see you. You have beautiful brown eyes, your smiles are sincere and free.

He asked her again but she refused to close her eyes. There was something risky about closing one's eyes in front of someone who asks for it.

You don't trust me.

No.

You close your eyes when you dance with me.
You close your eyes even when we were dancing by the river, outdoors. Remember? Even after we had a fight, you danced with me, you closed your eyes. You joked that if I threw you off into the water you would be mighty upset.

I wasn't joking.

You don't trust me.

He realizes now that when someone doesn't see you, she can't trust you much.

What do you want me to see?

He was saddened by that question. Not only because it was tinged with frustration from someone he wanted to be able to see him, but also it obviously meant she didn't see him. She didn't want to try. He wanted to tell her that she needed to close her eyes and open her heart to see him. He had imagined her closing her eyes and touch his face with her hands. No one has ever done that before, touching his face (besides trying to wipe off something dirty). The touch of the fingers would be the first electric connection to the heart. But she just smiled and shook her head.

You're being silly. Just read that fortune slip to me.

He cracked open the fortune cookie without opening the plastic wrapper. She looked amused.

Why do you not open it like normal people?

He didn't look at her. He wasn't normal. He wanted to tell her that he believed it was possible to see the words of fortune without opening the obvious. But it sounded too cheesy, or at least she would find it cheesy. He just shook and smiled, admitting partially that she was right, that he was weird.

What does it say? And add "in bed" at the end, remember!

When was that? Five years ago. The first trip to the fortune cookie source of the universe. The place where the cracked open fortune cookie he beheld in his hand must have be born. They were in a dingy little Chinese restaurant around the corner. It was a very cheap place. She didn't have much money and they had established long ago that he would never pay for her. That meant they had to go where she could afford. Just dumplings. Hot, big, fat dumplings. Her hands. He remembered her hands. They were gorgeous. But the ivory fingers would never know the texture of his virgin face. He knew how her wrist felt. He knew what her scent was. He knew the feel of her hair. And of course, the glow from her eyes. He knew what her existence felt like in his arms.

What are you doing?

In the darkness, total darkness, in the silence punctured only slightly by the sporadic cab nine floors down on the vacant streets of the Mission District of San Francisco, in that darkness he saw her, as if they were on the beach in full sun. He could see her eyes were closed when she asked that question. He knew where her face was and gently touched it. He could see she smiled a little upon that touch. He could see how they could not be together much longer. In that darkness she didn't see him. In that darkness, the world simply went to sleep.

It says, "May your journeys, however long, be traveled always with an open heart."

It's worse than mine, listen....

He can't remember what hers said. The sweet egg smell from the fortune cookie factory was nearly gone as the distance between him and the center of the universe's fortune grew. He had only been to the factory twice. He had been to San Francisco five times, each time with a different girl. But this first visit to the city, when he first visited the factory, made him open his heart a little more to a lesson in the journey of life: the most amazing person in the world has little to do with qualities to admire, but simply has the heart to see him. This thought precipitated in him again as he sat before the Oakland Bridge, watching the clouds move in great hurry through the San Francisco Bay.