The Coffee Fortune

The café was a time capsule—brass pots, embroidered cushions, the thick scent of cardamom-spiced coffee. Samira sat in her grandmother's old corner, practicing an art she'd never quite believed in.

"Read mine?" A man slid into the seat across from her, turning his emptied cup upside down. "My mother used to do this. I miss it."

He was handsome—mid-forties, with laugh lines around serious eyes. Samira took the cup, more from habit than conviction.

The grounds spoke clearly. Too clearly.

"You're going to tell me something terrible," the man said, watching her face pale. "I knew it. I have that kind of luck."

"No." She set down the cup, hands trembling. "Not terrible. Just... unexpected."

"What do you see?"

"You. Me." She swallowed. "Together."

His name was Kamal, and he didn't believe in coffee fortunes either. But he kept returning to the café, ordering coffee he didn't finish, asking her questions she found herself answering.

"Why did you really become a fortune teller?" he asked one evening, as the café emptied around them.

"I inherited it. Like the café." She shrugged. "My grandmother left both to me when she died. I couldn't give up either."

"Do you believe in what you see?"

"I believe the grounds show patterns. What those patterns mean..." She trailed off. "I've never seen anything as clear as what I saw in your cup."

"And that scares you."

"Wouldn't it scare you?"

He kissed her three weeks later, in the back room where she ground the coffee beans. Samira had felt it building—the tension whenever he walked in, the way conversations lasted hours, the impossibility of looking away.

"The fortune," she gasped against his mouth.

"Is already happening." His hands found her waist. "Tell me to stop."

She couldn't. Didn't want to.

"I've never—"

"Neither have I." He pulled back to meet her eyes. "My wife left ten years ago. I've been alone since. And then you read my coffee and told me I had a future."

"You're only here because of what I said."

"I'm here because of what I feel." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "The fortune just gave me permission to hope."

They made love among sacks of unroasted beans, the scent of coffee soaking into their skin. Kamal touched her like a man who'd forgotten pleasure was possible—grateful, wondering, determined to memorize every moment.

"Ya Allah," he groaned, his mouth on her breast. "You taste like coffee."

"Occupational hazard."

"I'm not complaining."

He entered her slowly, eyes locked on hers, and Samira felt the fortune clicking into place—inevitable, terrifying, right.

"Don't stop," she whispered. "Whatever happens—don't stop."

He didn't. They moved together in rhythms older than fortune-telling, building toward a future neither had planned.

When Samira came, she saw patterns behind her eyes—grounds swirling, forming shapes she finally understood.

"I love you," Kamal gasped as he followed her over. "I know it's too soon—I know we barely—"

"I know." She pulled him close. "I saw it. I believe it."

"Read my cup again," he said afterward, tangled together on the café floor.

"You don't believe in it."

"Maybe I'm starting to." He smiled. "What does our future look like?"

Samira took the cup he'd abandoned earlier, studying the grounds that had already told her everything.

"A wedding," she said slowly. "A small ceremony. Your mother crying, mine pretending not to."

"And?"

"A child. Maybe two." Her voice caught. "This café, still running. You, helping me grind beans in the morning. Gray in your hair. Gray in mine."

"That sounds like a good future."

"The best kind."

He kissed her again, and the coffee grounds settled into their final pattern—one that looked, if you squinted, exactly like happiness.

"Marry me," Kamal said. "Make the fortune true."

"Na'am," Samira answered. "But you're learning to make proper coffee first. That last batch was terrible."

His laughter echoed through the empty café, and somewhere, Samira's grandmother nodded approval.

The grounds never lied. She'd just needed to learn how to read them.