There are two of them in the basket; one for each of us. I choose the nearest, then hesitate. The other one seems to be winking at me in the pink light of the fringed Chinese lamp. My hand hovers.
‘Oh, go on then,’ he says, in a tone that is half way between irritation and resignation. Then he picks up and opens the one I’ve just refused. An odd smile twitches at the corner of his mouth as he reads; ‘Don’t cry for it, try for it’.
Mine crumbles into fragments when I break it open. There’s nothing inside. I look on the tablecloth, on the floor, under my napkin. But there’s still nothing. The cookie is empty. I’m not superstitious, definitely not, but something uneasy and irrational drags itself out of hiding and sits there in the coloured foil, staring at me.
‘If you don’t eat it, it can’t come true,’ he says. He’s already crunching into his, the almost-smile still curling one side of his mouth.
