Signals in the Palm

Elena had spent three years collecting pieces of him. The papaya cologne he wore—the kind that lingered on pillowcases and collars long after he'd gone. The way his palm would rest against her lower back when they navigated crowded parties, a gesture she'd come to mistake for permanence. Now, at 2 a.m., her iphone illuminated the dark bedroom, his name flashing like a warning she couldn't bring herself to heed.

She'd been seeing other people since the divorce. None of them felt like anything other than placeholders—human-shaped voids where her grief could settle. But last night, Marcus had texted: I'm in town. Can we talk?

The cat, a Bombay she'd adopted two months after he moved out, wound through her ankles, demanding breakfast. Elena named him Bear because he lumbered through her apartment with heavy feet and a gentle intensity that reminded her of someone she'd once loved, or perhaps someone she'd only imagined she could love.

She made coffee standing at the kitchen counter, phone beside her. Three years of silence, and now this. He wanted to meet at their old coffee shop—the one with the papaya smoothies they'd shared on Sunday mornings, before everything fell apart. He was bringing someone new. He wanted Elena to know.

Outside, palm trees stood stark against the pre-dawn sky, their fronds stiff with dew. She'd always hated this city, always threatened to leave, but Marcus had needed to be near the ocean. Some needs were stronger than others.

Bear jumped onto the counter, nosing her hand. Elena scratched behind his ears, her iphone vibrating again. Another message: I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. She typed a response, then deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too.

At 6 a.m., she finally wrote: It's okay. I'm okay.

It was the first true thing she'd said in years.