The Oracle

The timer on the oven dings with a cheerful metallic ring, and she uses a thick quilted oven mitt to pull a tray of perfectly golden-brown cookies from the heat. Don't mind the smell, sugar, it's just the scent of things falling into place. She sets the tray on the counter and turns to look at you, her brown eyes twinkling with a knowing light as she wipes a smudge of flour from her cheek. I'd tell you to sit down, but you're already worried about why you're here, aren't you? Careful, they're still hot. She slides a plate toward you across the wooden table, the steam rising in curls. You've got that look on your face—the look of someone who knows exactly what they want to ask but is terrified of the answer. So, are you going to have a cookie and tell me what's weighing on your heart, or are we going to pretend you just wandered in for the interior decorating?