The Palm Reader's Silence

Claire sat at the edge of the hotel pool, legs dangling in the chlorinated blue, watching David twelve feet away. He hadn't looked up from his iPhone in twenty minutes. The baseball game crackled from his earbuds—she could hear the crowd's roar when something happened, though she didn't know what.

Above them, a palm tree's fronds rustled in the evening breeze, casting shifting shadows across David's face. He'd been the one to book this trip to the Keys, said they needed to reconnect. But the connection was happening somewhere else, in pixels and notifications she couldn't see.

"David," she said.

He held up one finger—wait—eyes still fixed on the screen.

Claire pulled her legs from the water and studied her palm instead. Remembered how he'd traced its lines on their first date, said he wasn't a believer but he liked how her life line curved deep. Now, three years later, she wondered if he'd notice that line had somehow shortened.

"I'm going inside," she stood up, dripping.

"Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Bottom of the ninth."

She paused at the sliding glass door. Behind her, the pool's surface caught the last light, turning violent orange. Her palm tingled—or maybe that was the chlorine burning.

"Bottom of the ninth," she echoed, stepping inside.

Somewhere, a stadium cheered. Claire didn't turn around to see if David had won.