what a cup of coffee can tell you

My friend calls her mother a witch because she can read the dregs of your coffee cup and tell you your future.

She has predicted pregnancies and vacations and illness. She has seen weddings and lucky numbers and the star sign of the next person to walk through the door.

She knew my last three moves before I did. And told me what my own mother was giving me for Christmas.

So today we made the coffee. It was early, and we needed coffee anyway, so we thought, 'Why not?' We used a silver pot placed over a blue flame on the stove. We poured the dark, thick liquid into tiny cups -- doll-size, almost, and painted with roses. The saucers did not match.

We could taste the grounds as we drank. We had forgotten to add sugar.

"What do you see?" we asked.

She told me I would move again. Far. And this time, alone. And this time, with conflict and anxiety. "You are concerned about something," she said. "You are worried."

She told me that even though I was the one moving, he would be the one to leave. "Because he doesn't know what he wants," she said. "And you know, but he doesn't."

She pointed to smudges on the porcelain. "Look," she said. "You are already getting smaller. There is already a distance."

I tell myself it is just a cup. It can fit in my palm. I can fold my fingers over it. I can crush it, I can drop it, I can break it.

I can change it.

But there is still dread. And tonight I call him, perhaps too many times, hoping to hear something in his voice that will assure me this is all just superstition.