Palm Reader's Box Seats

Maggie adjusted her fedora, tilting the brim against the brutal California sun. Section 114, Row 12, Seat 8—the same seat she'd occupied every Sunday for three months, ever since David moved out.

The baseball game unfolded below her like a choreographed dance she no longer knew the steps to. Around her, couples shared overpriced beers and salty kisses. She should've brought someone. Anyone. The empty seat beside her felt like a missing tooth in an otherwise perfect smile.

"You look like you're trying to disappear into that hat."

She jumped. A man with copper skin and startling green eyes leaned against the empty seat beside her, holding two suspiciously warm hot dogs.

"Palm reading?" he asked, offering the extra food. "I'm serious. You've got thoughtful hands."

Maggie laughed, surprised by the sound escaping her throat. "What does that even mean?"

"Means you spend too much time inside your own head." He unwrapped his hot dog with practiced ease. "I'm Carlos, by the way. And you look like someone who forgot why she came here."

She accepted the food. The orange glow of sunset painted the stadium in honeyed light as the bottom of the ninth approached. She watched Carlos's hands—rough, capable, his palm dusted with calluses. She hadn't noticed hands in a long time. Hadn't noticed much of anything except the hollow space where her marriage used to be.

"My ex-husband," she said suddenly, the words tasting like betrayal though they were merely truth, "used to say I was his vitamin supplement. Essential, but not particularly enjoyable to swallow on his own."

Carlos choked on his hot dog. "Jesus. That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard."

"We were married eleven years."

"And now?"

"Now I come to baseball games alone and wear hats that don't suit me because he always hated them."

The crowd roared as the batter connected with the ball—a perfect arc against the darkening sky. Carlos didn't watch the game. He watched her instead.

"Take off the hat," he said quietly.

Maggie's fingers trembled at the brim. The setting sun caught the tear tracking down her cheek, glistening like liquid amber.

"Your palm," Carlos said, extending his own. "Let me see it."

She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. His touch was warm, solid, terrifyingly present.

"You see this line?" He traced the crease running across her palm. "It's called the life line, but it's really about how you handle whatever comes. Yours is deep, Maggie. You don't break. You bend."

The stadium lights flickered on, artificial daylight replacing the dying sun. She looked at her palm against his, the lines mapping stories she hadn't learned to read yet.

"Stay for the tenth inning?" Carlos asked. "I promise not to compare you to any supplements."

Maggie smiled, really smiled, for the first time in months. The fedora stayed in her lap.