While sitting at the Coffee Bean with some friends one evening, conversation veered towards the fortunetellers and those with the gift of seeing tomorrow.

“Impossible,” the eldest in our group said. “No one can see the future.”

“Actually, there is a long tradition of looking at tomorrow,” the youngest of us offered. “You know, from the Grecian Oracles and on to the runecasters, wisewomen, um, Nostrodamus, and modern-day psychics.”

“All fake,” the eldest replied, sipping her Apricot Ceylon tea. “Only God knows our destinies.”

“You do know that the Bible itself has prophecies, right?” I said. “There were prophets and the entire book of Revelations…”

The eldest of my friends looked at me with a smile bolstered by faith, as if I were a heretic spouting banalities. Wisely, I let the thread go.

The youngest of us, however, was not quite done.

“Are you finished with your tea?” he asked the eldest.

Warily, our eldest friend handed over the empty paper cup.

“People also believed that tea leaves, or what’s left of them after drinking, can divine the future,” the youngest of us said to the scowling eldest.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s true.”

“If so, what does mine say?” our eldest friend asked.

The youngest of us peered into the cup, straightened up in his chair and cleared his throat before speaking.

“You’re treating us to a round of drinks tomorrow!” he said with a smile.

We all laughed at his lame attempt at humor and the conversation moved on to other things. There is something magical about a group of friends who speak freely; words fly in and out and weave impressions that are the building blocks of memories for later on. It is the past that we are able to see best, not tomorrow.

Before we left, I took a quick look at the bottom of my tea cup and saw nothing I unexpected.