The Palm Reader's Last Customer

The air conditioning in the hotel lobby hummed like a guilty conscience. Maya sat in the velvet chair, her hands clenched in her lap, staring at the sign: Madame Zora — Palm Readings, $50.

She'd come to Miami on a tip. Her husband's credit card statements showed monthly charges to this hotel, small amounts that could have been anything. Room service. Parking. A palm reader.

"You're not here for the future, are you?" The woman across from her had eyes the color of storm clouds and skin like polished mahogany. She didn't introduce herself as Madame Zora. She just reached across the small table. "Let me see."

Maya hesitated, then placed her right hand in the woman's grip. The touch was cool, clinical.

"You've been swimming upstream," the woman said, her finger tracing the life line. "Against the current. Fighting the flow."

"I don't believe in this," Maya said.

"No? Then why are you here?"

Maya thought about the seven years of marriage. The late nights at the office. The deleted emails. The way Daniel had stopped looking at her like she was the only person in the room. "I think my husband is having an affair."

The woman's finger stopped moving. She looked up. "Daniel?"

Maya's chest tightened. "You know him."

"He comes here on the first Tuesday of every month." The woman released Maya's hand. "We sit right here. He asks the same question."

"What question?"

"'Does she still love me?'", "

The water in the decorative fountain splashed softly nearby. Maya felt something crack open inside her, sharp and sudden. All those nights she'd lain awake, imagining Daniel in someone else's bed. All the scenarios she'd constructed, each one more elaborate than the last. And the whole time, he'd been asking if she still loved him.

"He thinks you're slipping away," the woman continued. "He says you look through him now. Like he's become transparent."

Maya stood up. Her legs felt unsteady. The irony washed over her — she'd been playing detective, playing spy in her own marriage, when the real problem was that she'd stopped being present at all.

"Does she still love me?" she repeated softly.

"That's not something I can read in a palm," the woman said. "But you're here, aren't you?"

Maya left without paying. Outside, the Miami humidity wrapped around her like an embrace. She pulled out her phone, scrolled to Daniel's name, and typed: I'm still here. Where are you?

The three dots appeared immediately. I'm at the hotel. Were you looking for me?

She looked up at the swaying palm trees against the night sky and began to walk back inside.