The Anatomy of Returning

Marcus sat in the emptiness of his divorce, forty-two years old and choking down a handful of vitamins like penance. The cable bill was the first thing Elena had stopped paying before she left, so he watched the baseball game through a haze of digital snow—some minor league team he'd never followed, their uniforms bright against the gray outfield. He'd stopped caring about sports somewhere between the mortgage refinancing and the couples therapy.

"You have a long lifeline," the woman said, turning his hand over in hers. He'd found her in the strip mall next to the grocery store, between the tax preparer and the vape shop. PALM READING, her sign promised. PSYCHIC SERVICES.

Her name was Sarah. She smelled like patchouli and desperation. She traced the lines on his palm with fingers that trembled slightly. He wondered if she was high, or just tired.

"That's a trick," he said. "Everyone's lifeline looks long if you stretch the skin right."

She looked up. Her eyes were the color of watered-down whiskey. "I'm not trying to trick you."

Outside, rain began to fall, that heavy summer rain that never cooled anything down. The baseball game on the radio behind her counter droned on—bottom of the ninth, two outs. Marcus thought about the vitamins in his kitchen cabinet, organized by size and time of day, like some pathetic attempt to reverse entropy through better nutrition. Elena had always rolled her eyes when he sorted them.

"I could read the rest," Sarah said. "If you wanted."

He stared at the fluorescent lights reflected in the mirror behind her. His own face looked back, hollow around the eyes, a stranger's face.

"What would it cost?"

"Twenty dollars," she said. "Or you could tell me why you're here alone in the middle of the afternoon when you should be at work."

Marcus laughed, surprising himself. "I took the day off. Had a doctor's appointment. Turns out all those vitamins aren't working as well as I'd hoped."

She smiled then, a small real thing that made him realize how rarely he saw real smiles anymore. "I get off at six," she said. "There's a bar down the street. They've got cable. They've got baseball on tap."

"On tap?"

"As much as you can drink." She pressed his palm against hers, warm skin against warm skin. "What do you say?"

The baseball game ended somewhere behind them. Outside, the rain kept falling. Marcus thought about his empty apartment, the vitamins in his cabinet, the long stretch of life still ahead of him.

"I'd say," he said, "you should probably finish reading my palm first."