The Palm of His Hand

Madame Vera's shop smelled of sandalwood and desperation. Marcus sat across from her, extending his right hand, trying not to think about the margin call that had wiped out his portfolio at the opening bell.

"You have a bull's nature," Vera said, tracing the line on his palm that curved toward his fingers. "Always charging forward. Never looking back." Her voice was like sand over silk. "But the bear is waiting."

Marcus laughed bitterly. "The bear already got me. Lost three hundred thousand this morning."

Vera's eyes, dark and depthless, met his. "I'm not talking about the market."

He pulled his hand back. The fan overhead spun lazily, barely stirring the oppressive heat. Outside, the city roared with the indifferent noise of winners and losers.

"What are you talking about then?"

"Your wife," Vera said simply. "She's been seeing someone else. For six months."

Marcus felt the blood drain from his face. "You're full of shit."

"Am I?" Vera shuffled her tarot deck. "The cards don't lie. Neither does the palm." She leaned forward. "Check your phone. The text from twenty minutes ago."

Marcus's hands trembled as he unlocked his phone. Sarah's message: "We need to talk. Tonight."

He thought of last night's dinner—Sarah picking at her spinach salad, barely speaking. The silence that had stretched between them like a tightrope. How many times had he checked his stocks during dinner? How many times had she watched him choose the market over her?

"The bear," Vera said, softer now. "The one that hibernates alone. That's your future unless you change."

Marcus stood up, throwing a crumpled fifty on the table. Outside, the noon sun was brutal. He flagged a taxi, heading toward the apartment he might not have much longer, toward the conversation that would end his marriage or finally make it real.

His palm tingled where she'd touched it. The bull and the bear, entwined in his skin like fate.