The Palm Reader's Paradox

Elena sat across from me at the dimly lit bistro, her hand extended, **palm** up. The lines there were shallow, like someone had started a map and abandoned it halfway through.

"You're the **sphinx** of the department," she said, pulling her hand back. "Nobody knows what you're thinking."

I stirred my salad, pushing a wilted **spinach** leaf aside. "Maybe there's nothing to know."

She laughed, but her eyes stayed serious. "That's not true, Marcus. I've seen how you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention."

A **cat** wound between our table legs, orange and bold, jumping onto her chair as if invited. Elena stroked its chin, her movements practiced, familiar. The cat purred like a small engine, loud in the sudden quiet between us.

"You're going to tell me what this is about," I said, "or you're going to let me believe whatever I want."

"That's the thing about riddles," she said, scratching behind the cat's ears. "The answer matters less than what you're willing to risk to find it."

The waiter came. She ordered wine. I asked for water.

"I'm leaving David," she said when he walked away.

The spinach suddenly tasted bitter. David was our supervisor. David was married. David was also the reason Elena had been promoted last month instead of me.

"Because of me?" I asked.

"Because of me," she corrected. "Because I've been making the wrong choices for three years and you've been watching me do it."

She reached across the table, palm up again, waiting. This time I took it. Her fingers were cold, mine were warm. The cat watched us both with golden eyes, indifferent and ancient all at once.

"So what's my fortune?" I asked, my voice hoarser than I intended.

She smiled for the first time that evening. "You stop being the riddle and start being the answer."

Outside, rain began to fall. Neither of us moved.