I can see her future, just as clearly as I can see the beautiful dress she put on for her secret lover today, or the way she grips her bag so tightly with her gaze cast down at the table. I can see the future of the waiter who refills our drinks with a polite smile. He’s going to find a parking ticket on his car when he leaves work, and then his wife is going to yell at him when he gets home. I make a mental note to leave him an extra big tip.

I can see the future of the little girl at the table across from us. Tomorrow is her birthday, and she’ll get a stuffed bear that she’ll become inseparable from. It’s hard not to smile as I realize how happy she’ll be. Whatever brief happiness I feel for the little girl disappears as I turn my attention back to my wife.

“I may be late getting home tonight,” she says, taking a sip of water nervously, “So much extra work.”

I can see her future. I know that when she leaves this diner, when she walks down the block and takes an inattentive step into the road, she’ll be run down by a young driver. That stupid bag of hers will skitter across the road with a spray of blood on it; the driver screaming in shock at the sight of the body that has shattered his windshield. At this moment, I can’t bring myself to even attempt to alter my wife’s unfortunate destiny, the pain of her betrayal is so great.

“I’ll wait up for you,” I lie.