The Palm Reader's Last Summer

The air conditioning had been dead for three days when Elena showed Marcus the lines on his palm. Her apartment felt like a greenhouse, the humidity pressing against the windows like something trying to get in. She traced the life line with a thumbnail, her other hand cradling a sweating glass of white wine.

"You'll live to eighty-seven," she said, not looking up. "Unless you keep drinking like that."

Marcus laughed, a sound that had grown rusty in the months since Sarah left. He watched her neighbor's golden retriever panting on the fire escape outside, the animal's whole body swaying with each labored breath. The dog had been swimming in the East River earlier that morning — Marcus had seen it from the Williamsburg Bridge, sleek and determined, cutting through the gray water like it knew exactly where it was going.

"You really believe this stuff?" he asked, gesturing at the diagrams spread across Elena's coffee table. She'd taken up palmistry during the divorce, same way she'd taken up smoking and sleeping past noon.

Elena looked at him then, her eyes holding that sphinx-like quality she'd developed lately — unreadable, ancient, slightly cruel. "I believe people want to be told things, Marcus. Whether it's true or not, that's not really the point."

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance. The dog barked once, sharply. Marcus thought about Sarah, about how she'd left without saying goodbye, just a note on the kitchen counter saying she needed to find herself. He was still swimming through the wreckage of their marriage, still coming up for air in rooms that reminded him of her laughter, her keys in the bowl, her shampoo in the shower.

"What do you see?" he asked, and held out his hand.

Elena studied his palm for a long time. The room grew darker as the storm moved in. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"I see you're going to be okay," she said. "Eventually. But not today."

Marcus pulled his hand back. Outside, the first raindrops began to fall, and the dog scrambled inside through the open window, shaking water everywhere, smelling of river and hope and things that couldn't be taught.