Palm Reading in Havana

The ceiling fan spun lazily above us, cutting through the humid Havana air. You sat across the small table, your palm resting face-up on the worn wood surface. I should have been reading your future in those lines, but I was too busy reading your past.

"You're not taking your vitamins," I said, noticing the tremor in your hand as you reached for your mojito.

You laughed—a sound that had become foreign over the past three months. "Always the doctor. Even on vacation."

But this wasn't a vacation. This was an evacuation. Our marriage had become a structure fire, and we were the last ones inside, refusing to leave. The weight I'd been bearing had settled into my shoulders, my lower back, the spaces between my ribs where breath used to live.

Outside, a Cuban street vendor walked by shouting something about cigars. The palm trees swayed in the dusk, their fronds like old women shaking their heads at our foolishness.

"I know you hired someone," I said quietly. "The private investigator. Did you get what you needed?"

Your hand tightened around your glass. The ice clinked against the sides—tiny bells announcing a funeral. "Spying on your spouse. It's a cliche, isn't it?" You paused, something unreadable crossing your face. "I needed to know if there was someone else."

"And?"

"And the worst part," you said, finally meeting my eyes, "was discovering there wasn't."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. The fan kept spinning, indifferent to our disintegration. I looked at your palm again—the life line, the heart line, all those predictions that had promised us forever. They were just creases in the skin, after all.

"You should take your vitamins," I said again, because sometimes the smallest truths are the only ones we can bear.

You smiled then, and it was almost real. "Tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow."

We both knew tomorrow would find us back home, dividing assets and memories, but for tonight, we let ourselves believe in the possibility of things unseen.