The Palm Court Fox

The betting pool at the office had reached four thousand dollars when Marcus finally told me he was leaving. Everyone had money on whether we'd marry or implode by Christmas. The smarter money, it turned out, had been on implosion all along.

Now I'm sitting at this resort pool in Palm Springs, watching the water ripple like mercury under the desert sun. A real palm tree — not the fake one in our lobby where he'd press me against the trunk during lunch breaks — casts a shadow across my drink.

I trace the lines on my own palm, trying to remember what that drunk fortune teller in New Orleans said three years ago. Something about a dark-haired stranger bringing either great joy or total ruin. She hadn't mentioned it might be both.

Marcus was a fox, I see that now. Not the handsome-cute kind women sometimes mean. The animal — sleek, hungry, impossible to domesticate. I thought his restlessness was passion. His sharp eyes were always calculating, always measuring. I was just another resource to be managed, another asset to be liquidated when the timing was right.

The pool is empty except for one elderly woman doing slow laps. She moves with the confidence of someone who's stopped giving a damn about being watched. I order another gin and tonic and check my phone. Still nothing from him. Not that I expected anything.

The resort hostess approaches, asking if I want another drink. As I hand her my glass, our palms brush against each other. The contact is electric, unexpected. Her fingers linger for a fraction of a second too long. Her smile has teeth.

"You look like someone who just figured something out," she says. "That's the dangerous moment, you know. The moment before you decide what to do with it."

I watch her walk away, suddenly aware that the betting pool doesn't have to end with me as either victim or fool. That foxes aren't the only ones who know how to hunt.

The water looks inviting. I think I'll take a swim.