Digital Palmistry

Mia sat on the balcony of the Veracruz hotel, the fronds of the palm tree overhead swaying in the humidity like half-hearted applause. It was their fifth anniversary, or it would have been, if David hadn't decided that 'I need space' was an acceptable thing to text someone via iPhone at 2 AM.

She'd come anyway. Non-refundable reservation. That's what she told herself, standing in the orange glow of the sunset with a margarita that cost more than her first car.

The screen lit up again.

'i didn't mean to hurt you'

The palm reader at the cruise terminal had taken her hand yesterday, traced the life line with a yellowed fingernail. 'You will face a great heartbreak,' she'd said, 'but you will emerge stronger.' Mia had tipped her twenty bucks and laughed. She didn't believe in that stuff—believed in spreadsheets, quarterly reports, the quantifiable comfort of a savings account.

But here she was.

Her iPhone buzzed. Another message.

'can we talk'

Mia watched a toddler chase an orange ball across the sand, his father trailing behind, phone in hand, face illuminated, not looking up. Not seeing. She thought about all the times David had done that—been there, somewhere in the vicinity, while his attention lived somewhere else. In the blue light. In the notifications.

The palm reader's voice echoed: 'You will emerge stronger.'

Mia set the phone on the table. Face down.

She ordered another margarita, watched the sky turn from orange to violet, and for the first time in five years, she didn't check to see if he'd answered.