Fortune Cookie

This is a short story that I had good intentions to submit for a writing contest I saw on geist.ca. I believe that the premise had to have something to do with a fortune cookie. Of course I didn't finish the story in time for the deadline. Here's what I have pieced together from my attempts:

Florescent street lamps chill the November air. We trudge home from Champions Canadian/Chinese Restaurant across its small, cratered parking lot, vacant of cars but full of slush and salt. This will all be frosted over by morning, but for now my canvas sneakers sop up the wet mess to my ankles.
As we walk it starts to snow.
At home, Sam changes into dry clothes and lends me boxer shorts and an old soccer t-shirt that says THE HONEYBEES on the chest and 13 across the back. The house is empty. We hunker down in the basement to watch one of three fuzzy channels on the old TV set, and pick at cold tofu and broccoli out of its Styrofoam container. The basement is damp and the air smells earthy. The carpet is light-brown shag; there is a grungy yellow foam mattress in a corner, a tweed couch and a small television on a built-in shelf in one pine-paneled wall. High school parties always took place in basements like this, and there is something cunt-like and sexy about it that makes me self-conscious, exposed.
Anxiety builds up in my mind, flake by flake.
I don't know.
Later, Sam shows me her new record player and SLR - gifts from her grandparents. She doesn't own a single record. I'm the one who took photography classes in high school.
During a rerun of SCTV we crack our fortune cookies.
My slip of paper is blank. I show it to Sam.
"Ooooooooh, spooky!" she says, "Do you think that means you have no future?"
I wad up the paper and toss it at her head. "Fuck you. What does yours say?"
"It says: 'You will soon have an important decision to make.' Duh! Bo-ring!"
While she eats both of our cookies, I break off a piece of Styrofoam and crumble it into tiny white pieces on the rug. "Maybe one day we'll go to a Chinese food place that actually uses those little folded-up Chinese food boxes..."
"Ha! First you have to get the hell out of this hick-town!"
I already know this. So long as I am stuck here, my future is a blank.
The wind blows a drift of snow against the high, narrow basement window.
I think, 'What did I want my cookie to predict?'There are times when something comes out of her mouth and I swear it came from my own head. And it thrills me, makes something leap in me that I didn
Now I think about it and I am scared to death that I don
I resolve to keep close tabs on my ideas at all times so that they don
"Since when do you take pictures?" I say.
She shrugs. "Max is gonna show me. And there's a darkroom downtown that's cheap to use."
The last time we hung out alone, I took a picture of Sam in a spiralling yellow stairwell at the university. When I saw it developed, it was black and white and embarrassing. I was amateur and uncertain with my camera, and all of the prints were out of focus. Sam was blatantly bored and restless, her expression drugged. Her black-rimmed eyes were ghastly, ghostly streaks. But that is not why it makes me wince.
What is most revealing about the photo is the obvious vulnerability of the photographer.
I hadn’t know was there, and I'm either going to be sick or scream or cry or explode.’t have a single original thought in my head. ’t escape. ’t seen Sam in a few weeks and she had chopped off all of her hair and dyed it black. Her face was shocking - she had had bangs and long hair since we had first met years ago. Max had cut it for her the previous night, and afterwards she had dropped acid with him for the first time...