The Palm Reader's Prescription

Maria sat across from him at the kitchen table, her palm pressed against his, fingers interlaced. The morning light caught the silver in her hair, made her skin look translucent where age had thinned it.

"You need to take your vitamin," she said, not looking at him, watching the way their knuckles brushed against each other.

David nodded but didn't move. Sixty-two years old and still forgetting the damn supplements. His joints ached with a familiarity that had become background noise, like the hum of the refrigerator or the neighbor's dog barking at nothing.

"Remember when we played baseball in that empty lot behind your parents' house?" he asked suddenly.

Maria smiled, the lines around her eyes deepening. "You hit the ball through old Mrs. Gable's window. We ran like hell."

"I was wearing that hat backwards like an idiot."

"Like all the boys did then."

Silence settled between them, comfortable as worn leather. Outside, the palm tree they'd planted twenty years ago swayed in the breeze, its fronds casting dancing shadows across the floor. They'd bought it on a whim during a trip to San Diego, transported it back in the back of their station wagon, grinning like teenagers who'd gotten away with something.

She stood up, filled a glass of water from the tap, placed it and the white pill in front of him.

David swallowed it without protest, the water cool against his throat. He thought about how differently time moved now—how a whole year could collapse into the memory of breaking a window, how the body became a series of reminders, pills, and careful movements.

Maria's hand found his again across the table. "You okay?"

"Just thinking about Mrs. Gable's window."

"She forgave us, you know. Two weeks later, she brought us lemonade and told us to hit it into the next yard next time."

David squeezed her hand, feeling the life still there, still stubborn and wonderful. "We got lucky."

"We got lucky," she agreed, and for a moment, the kitchen seemed filled with all the years they'd shared—all the broken windows and lemonades, all the palms and vitamins and ordinary mornings that added up to this.