There is a sunset on the water in your future. Brilliant orange-reds punctuating a violet-blue sky. A white sailboat anchored in a caribbean bay. Everything copasetic.

On a grey slate boulder, set under a blossoming cherry tree, wait for her. She approaches from the west, in a tan suit, pink dress shirt, pearls. She has been meeting you here for lunch once a year for four years, the only concession to your previous time together. Otherwise you do not call her and neither does she ring you. At these times, you do not talk about your parents, the circumstances of your parting. She tells you of work, the neighborhood she lives in now, the ballroom dancing classes she started taking. Both of you smile over bento boxes and tea. After an hour, you take her hand and you say goodbye, till next year.

Today, as she approaches from the west, you will smile. You will take her hand immediately, and her left foot will step back, inadvertently crushing a fallen cherry blossom with her heel. "Will you marry me?", you will say, your voice croaking like a frog. She will blush, a fierce persimmon shade. Her eyelids are lowered, she is staring at your shoes. "Yes." She will whisper. You have to lean in closer to hear. "Yes." She says again. This time loud enough that a young boy playing hopscotch a few paces away will stop and turn, thinking that his mother has called his name.

Wind and water. Grounds quaking. Nature will return and remind you of her existence. Umbrellas are useless. Just run very fast.

A dark haired young man will make you sweet and savory crepes for breakfast. One with deli bacon and good cheddar, the other with nutella, mixed berry jam and almond bits. Give him a kiss to thank him. Teach him how to make tea.

On a highway junction, you will come across a young hitchhiker named Megan. She will be dressed as a goth - pale skin, dark rat's nest hair, black clothes, leather and metal spikes around her neck. Her breath will reek of alcohol but her mind will be bright, her voice cheery. Her boyfriend is a bassist. She sings lead for his band Filthy Rich Motherfuckers. They call their band this, because they are so fucking poor, she says. She will ask if you like punk rock, and if you have any Sex Pistols CD's. She is hitchhiking to the big city so she can bring socks and flashlights for her homeless friends there. She spent a month in the city with them, sleeping in abandoned train cars and hanging out on the corner of Colfax and Broadway. When asked about the town she lives in, Megan murmurs, "It's full of hicks, all I do all day is drink." She has braces and hates the cold. She learned how to ski when she was two. She goes to parties with people in fur coats. She accidentally spills wine on them. Accidentally. She lives in two trailer parks with great views. "I want to move to San Diego.", she says."It's so nice there, so fucking nice."

Drive on when she moves closer to the road, hands waving, almost blocking your car. Do not give her a ride, do not look her in the eye. Drive on.

Clouds in the horizon. A snowstorm. Icy streets. An old lady in rags, shopping cart in front of her, singing like a soloist in a great church choir. Almost an angel. Give her some change but refuse her attempts at fortunetelling. She is not truly mad enough to be a seer.

You will be seized by a sudden urge to name the unspeakable, challenge implied assumptions, shatter the delicate soap bubble ecosystem of bliss with a single question. Wait till February.

When the dice shows two fives in a game of backgammon in a tiny Moroccan restaurant with hookah pipes in the window and red velvet pillows on the sofa, carefully cock your head to one side and move all your chips to the last square. Do not be afraid of offending your opponent by kicking his chip out of the board. Remember that this is a betting game and be grateful you did not make any large bets involving houses, or daughters.

When the bearded proprietor comes around, ask for another slice of meat pie and a piece of baklava. Refuse any dish suggestions involving grape leaves. Order tea, but make sure it is mint. Sweets with oddly familiar logos but arabic writing on the packaging should be left alone, no matter how much nostalgia they bring.

Today you will meet a bleached blond acerbic man who will insist that Bob Dylan is both poet and musician and will claim that Kicking and Screaming is the most brilliant movie ever made. Resist the urge to feed him a pear. No good will come out of it.

There are fortunes in your future

As a fortune cookie copywriter, I have had some success in persuading Mr. W., president and owner of a fortune cookie dynasty in Brooklyn, NY, to adapt some of my more traditional yet sometimes whimsical creations in his folded biscuits. "I'll put them in the chocolate ones." He says. I choose to believe him.

However, there are still a fair number of fortune cookie fortunes that have never seen the inside of an all sugar dough fortune cookie due to either lack of space on the paper strip or lack of imagination of a certain head of a fortune cookie dynasty. So I offer up these homeless fortunes to the blogosphere. Take good care of them, stuff them in your wallet, even memorize the little buggers if you so desire. They aren't edible though. It would be good to remember that.